


i'd like to teach the world to sing

by mattzerella_sticks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Beaches, Castiel Behaves Like Endverse Castiel (Supernatural), Cults, Detective Dean Winchester, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, F/M, Flustered Dean Winchester, Hippie Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Missing Persons, Mystery, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Bigotry, Period-Typical Homophobia, Private Investigator Castiel (Supernatural), Recreational Drug Use, Sexually Experienced Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:54:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 82,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26329717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattzerella_sticks/pseuds/mattzerella_sticks
Summary: Mar del Vista, California - 1972The groovy counterculture that dominated conversation in the past few years still clings to the landscape, floating around like smoke off a burning joint. Changed by the fires of war, Manson, and life into something new. Less trusting, optimistic, and innocent.Cas is just one of many disillusioned hippies, saddled with a general distrust even before the movement self-imploded. Wary of about everything. Perfect for his line of work, where what's on the surface might not match the truth underneath. It's not an easy life, but he's comfortable with how it goes. Coasting until he hears a case he has no business accepting. For one, it's about a missing teen. And another, it's personal.Except Jack's disappearance, like every other case he's worked, isn't so cut and dry. Like a rock skipping across a then-placid lake, the ripples stretch far and wide. Those waves slamming at Cas; of cops, federal agents, hippie cultists, and a certain green-eyed detective who's a little too interested in Cas's investigation.Will Cas find Jack? Or will he drown in the tides.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel (Supernatural)/Other(s), Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	1. what the tide drags in

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!! Super excited to be sharing this with you as I have been working on this all summer (and have half of it done already lol).
> 
> This was O R I G I N A L L Y going to be what I put out for the DCBB, but I knew I wouldn't have gotten it done in time. So I decided to work on something else and not spend all my free time obsessing over this. Which was for the best as I was able to breathe while doing this (since this is gonna be so many chapters lol). Plus, as a mystery, I think doling this out piece by piece will be fun 😁
> 
> That being said, I hope you enjoy!

Early morning on the beach captures unreality; the picturesque dreams people waste gallons of paint in poor translations, the end product never truly carrying the same essence. Sunlight bounces off the rolling tides and glitter like diamonds on apology jewelry. They hit your eyes, distracting from the littered remains of beachgoers who occupied the space only yesterday – forgotten blankets, broken umbrellas, and trash they always think will be picked up after them. By lifeguards or seagulls or the sea itself. If placed right, a wave will crash onto the shore and carry off any memory you want repressed with a comforting roar of the tides. But the ocean was never kind, not like the surfers that dwell in his community would like thinking. That being thrown from their long boards meant the same as play wrestling in the school yard.

She is a cruel goddess, commanding respect. Fed up with being mistreated and misunderstood. Her waves are her outlet. Any life lost in them, they signed it away when they took their first step inside of her. Any secret she takes, she will return tenfold when you least expect it.

Cas sucks the last embers of his joint deep down into his lungs, easing his grip so it would fall into the sand. He then squashed the last embers with the toe of his sandal while blowing a cloud into the breeze.

“Hey,” a lifeguard barks at him, perched high atop his station, “Are you going to pick that up?”

Cas stares at him from behind his shades, unaffected. The skimpy uniform an antidote for his commanding baritone. “No,” he says, and then spins on his heel. He walks towards steadier ground trailed by the squeaking ladder on which the lifeguard uses when climbing or leaving his station. Cas smirks. Option one then, today.

His gait evens out when he hits asphalt. No longer stomping for balance, with bits of sand leaking onto his old leather as he sank. Cas leaves a trail of it the more distance he adds between him and the beach, following him, only crumbs stuck between his toes left when he rounds a corner. He doesn’t mind since everyone always carries a little bit of the beach with them. They have to. Inescapable if you live in Mar del Vista.

Cas knocks into a suit while crossing the street, the stuck-up stranger glaring at him. He smiles and offers him a friendly peace sign that lazily flies into a bird when he turns his back. The man disappears into the milling crowd more similar to Cas than him. When the temperature hovers in the eighties nine months out of the year, layers aren’t recommended. But a few nearby buildings house drones like that where they shelter indoors for most of the day. Only appearing for the brief moments in the day when they aren’t busy. Lives spent chasing after the almighty dollar, the carrot on a stick called the American Dream. A stark contrast to many who call this makeshift mainland paradise home.

Anyone who settled here long ago cut the string on that carrot. Half of the buildings in the area are filled with squatters who don’t pay for rent on top of everything else, letting the vacationers who use the rooms two weeks out of the year cover it. In Cas’s apartment complex, he is a rare species of tenent who rents and actually uses the space all-year round. A pity for management when they sweep up the trash every so often and find that they cannot legally kick him to the curb like a few _neighbors_ he has.

Speaking of which, he passes one of them now while coming up 80th. A young kid, barely old enough for all the hair on his uncovered chest and looking like every other white boy who washes up on their shores from the East. Andy talks up a chick with burnt red locks tied in a complicated braid. Leaning on the side of his van, one hand brushing at the freckles on her shoulder while the other tugs on the split ends tickling his neck. The back of his van is open, and Cas sees the makeshift bed. They lock eyes, Andy winking. Cas nods and carries on as his neighbor seals the deal. Andy needs a little fun if he’ll be camping in his van for the next few days.

Yesterday _was_ garbage day at Angel’s Oasis.

Cas nears his destination, marked by how sidewalk traffic tapers off and the number of obstacles spike. The great philosophical minds of Mar del Vista clustering, discussing current affairs. _Waves were so tall last night I felt like I could fly. I heard Marty got his hands on the yellow tabs for next week’s bonfire. I can’t believe you passed out before the Odd Couple, there was this one girl and her tits were hanging out of her shirt!_ Scintillating conversation with as much weight as the smoke billowing up from the joints being passed around. Sweet grass smell wafts everywhere, amplifying the traces already clinging to his clothes. His fingers twitch for another joint, but he stays focused. If he lit up now, the glassy eyes that were ignoring him would dart in his direction. Annoying him, asking for a hit. Cas preferred them as they were. Their lazy defiance of the status quo familiar and ordinary.

Which is why she stands out so easily. When he steps around a musician strumming his guitar for an enchanted crowd of three, his gaze immediately zeroes in on her.

What catches his interest first is her dress. With a hemline at the knee and a starched collar, she oozes a conservatism not often found on these streets. By the perfect flip of her hair and how squeaky-clean her penny loafers looked Cas would wager she found her way here from somewhere else. And by the shifty look in her eye, and the way her knuckles whiten further while holding her purse, the woman never would have come here if she had a choice. Which meant she needed something. Since she stands under the awning of the first-floor dry cleaners and not inside the store asking Mr. Kim about her husband’s suits or a wine-stained blouse, Cas has an idea on who that might be.

He pauses by the craft store three doors down and faces his reflection. Takes his sunglasses off and steps between the couple conversing on the sidewalk below for a clearer picture. The transparent reflection stares at him with a heavy brow and hazy blue eyes. Cas frowns at his hair, running his hands through and then rubbing them on his green-and-yellow striped button-down. While oily, none of it added to the patchwork of stains on his shirts. Although the dark spot on the thigh of his brown corduroys were new. He adjusts the hem of his shirt so it covers most of it. Pats at his hair again – from the roots of his mane to where the ends curl near his shoulders – and suddenly grins. Nothing in his teeth. Cas lowers the intensity into a more casual indifference, and steps back. His golden face disappears, replaced by a cheaply painted sunrise retailing for twenty-five dollars.

“And they call _us_ crazy…” He squares his shoulders and continues forward. Snags a newspaper from an open rack and tucks it underarm. Cas sidles up next to the woman, sides flush against one another. “Hello –“

“I’m not in the mood,” she mutters, shuffling over a few inches. “And I don’t have any money.”

Cas slips his hand under his shirt, over his heart. “That hurts. Maybe I wasn’t looking for money, but a friendly face?”

“Well the last three bums who stood where you were asked for the former.” Her lips twist ever downwards, and she wrings her hands together. “If you don’t mind… I’m waiting for someone.”

“Cas Novak?”

She pauses, stunned. Finally, the curtain of hair blocking her face parts and reveals the woman’s wide brown eyes and rosy cheeks. “Yes,” she says, “I am… how did you –“

“Lucky guess.” Cas pushes off the dry cleaners’ brick front, motioning for her to follow. “Why don’t we continue this somewhere more private. Like my office.” He ducks into the nearby alleyway, popping back out when he sees her stuck on the sidewalk like forgotten gum. “Well?”

“Are you…” the woman squints at him, wrinkles texturing her pretty Home-and-Gardens-cover-model face. “Are you really Cas Novak? The detective?”

He shrugs, scowling. “Nah, detectives are too stuck up. M’more like a private eye meets investigator, and sometimes I do freelance photography on the side. But they wouldn’t let me put all of that on a business card, and I hate business cards…” Cas leaves again. This time he hears her a few paces behind him.

They don’t talk during the short trip from the front of the building, past the row of garbage cans and the dumpster reeking of two-day old milk, and while climbing the worn side steps and into his office.

He pauses at the door, turning. “Sorry about the mess, my secretary’s been out for a while.” Cas walks through the door first, giving the room a cursory scan.

Everything seemed like he left it. The haphazard mountain of files stacked atop the desk didn’t shift at his entrance. No avalanche upending the entire structure and scattering old cases onto the floor with the empty pizza boxes and forgotten disguises. Across the way at the other end, his desk fared better. Less files, and a dented camera resting next to an ashtray with one and a half joints resting inside.

His guest needs more time taking in her surroundings. “Your secretary is out?” she asks, nose scrunched. When Cas nods, she asks the obligatory follow-up. “When will she be back?”

Cas taps at his chin, humming. “Not sure.”

“Well… how long has she been gone?”

“About three or four months,” he tells her. “She shacked up with this biker dude she met and they’ve been cruising open roads since. Last I heard they were tearing streets way north of here, in Portland.” Cas closes the bathroom door, hiding the still full bathtub and clothesline of hanging pictures. He sits at his desk, flinging the newspaper down and picking up one of the joints. The woman hadn’t moved since they walked in. “You can come closer,” he says, “take a seat… do you mind if I light up?”

“Yes, I do.” She sits across from him on the edge of the chair, legs folded tight. Lips pinched tight in judgment while glaring at the blackened sludge fossilized in a forgotten coffee mug.

Cas suffocates under her energy. He spreads his legs wider underneath his desk and undoes another button on his shirt as if it would ease the weight on his lungs. “So,” he starts, smiling, rolling the unlit joint between his fingers, “you found Cas Novak… now what can Cas Novak do for you?”

“Well –“

“Actually, let me guess,” he says, cutting her off. “Someone broke into your home and stole a family heirloom, and you think it was some hippie who sold it for their next fix?” She huffs her disagreement. “Then you’re being blackmailed, and want me figuring out who’s breathing down your neck before the next payment?” She rolls her eyes. “Is it marital issues? You think your husband is cheating on you and I have to follow him around with _this_ camera –“ Cas shakes the aforementioned device, “to get evidence of his illicit affair? You’re lucky, that’s what I’m best at.”

She tenses, finally snapping off a piece of her armor in a display of sudden vulnerability. Cas trails after her downcast gaze, watching as she tugs on her ring finger. Smooth and pale. “No husband,” she says after a while.

“No husband,” he smirks, leaning on the desk. Cas winks, “Maybe you’re here for something else then… guess my reputation has finally reached the book clubs and sewing circles.”

Her face slips back into disgusted indifference. “If you’re done,” she hisses, “may I please get on with why I’m really here. If all you’re going to do is waste my time than I can easily go talk with the police.”

Cas whisks off what remained of his pretense, meeting her level stare. “I doubt you will,” he says, “If you’re here… that means the police either failed or aren’t an option. So? Which is it?”

Another standoff. Cas sighs and pushes up from the desk, pacing while she regains her composure. He sticks the unlit joint behind his ear and grabs a random file, opening it. Flips through the papers at least three times when she clears her throat. “I went to the police,” she admits, “and they’ve done nothing.”

“Nothing about what?”

“About my missing boy.”

He snaps the file closed, and then presses the edge of it against his lips. Sighing, Castiel retakes his seat. Bones creaking when he sinks into it. “I’m sorry,” Cas says, “but I don’t do missing persons. Too messy –“

“But –“

“And they always lead to more trouble than they’re worth.” He skews his head off to the side. “You went to the police? What did they say?”

She throws her hands up, scoffing. Bits of her composure flying in the air like confetti. “That they’ll look into it but can’t promise finding him. How-how kids go missing all the time and usually it’s because they’ve run away, and they’ll come back in their own time. Once he’s fed up with doing things for himself or he needs money. That since he’s nineteen it’s not as important because he’s legally an adult –“

“Wait, hold on,” Cas stops her, “nineteen? Your son is nineteen?” He waits for her nod. A sad, trembling thing; eyes filled with unshed tears waiting to roll off her chin and into oblivion. “Have you considered that they might be… right?”

She scowls at him. “They’re not. I know it. He was –“

“Were the two of you fighting?”

Thrown off, she blinks at him. She raises a wry brow, leaning back, her tears receding. “What?”

Cas slips the joint from his ear and taps it on the desk, “You and your son? Were you fighting? Things at home… tense?”

She shifts, her lips thinning. Looks askance at the window, “I don’t know why that’s important.” He waits silently, not even breathing. Counts each moment her gaze darts his way and then drifts towards the window, rolling like the tides. Her shoulders droop, “For a while. Since he graduated and didn’t seem interested in going to college or-or getting a job. And then he…” She bites her lip, tugging on her ring finger again. Cas pinches the joint at its ends. “We got in a fight, and it was pretty bad. Avoided me for a couple of days, which was frustrating because we lived in the same place so-so at some point we had to see each other, right? And when I finally do see him again, he… changed. Every time after that he was… aloof? Like, not really there, if that makes any sense.”

“Disassociating, maybe,” Cas suggests, “Common practice when faced with combative and inescapable situations.”

“Are you a head shrinker, too?”

“No,” he grins, too aware of the lines on his own face. “I never was any good at the academia racket.” Cas ignores the exasperation slapped across her face like the sun on that overpriced painting. “Trust me, though, it don’t take much for a kid to want to hitch on to greener pastures. Everyone’s always looking for a way out, especially now.”

She stomps her foot. “But he wouldn’t do that. Jack wouldn’t do that. You know him.”

Cas drops the joint. His jaw opens and shut like a screen door caught in a hurricane, seconds away from being torn at the hinges. Feels caught in it himself, thrown into the skies and left to plummet with no support. “Jack?” he asks, “It’s Jack?” Then, “You’re Kelly?”

Kelly nods, and immediately it’s Jack’s face that flashes in his mind. They have the same chin and Bambi gaze. He mutters curses for not seeing it earlier. “Yes,” she says, “I’m Jack’s mom. And I need your help finding my son.” She opens her purse, rooting inside for a brief moment without breaking her staring contest with Cas. Kelly pulls a crumpled note from within and holds it out. Cas snatches it, flattening the tiny square in front of him. “You don’t seem to have anything against post-it notes…” It’s a sad chuckle.

Cas reads his scribbled handwriting, smudged from age. His name, address, and all ten digits of his phone number. “They’re useful.” He gestures at the array of files marked with their own notes and indecipherable shorthand. “Where’d you find this?”

“It was in his room –“

“You sacked his room?”

“I searched it,” she hisses, “should I not have done that? Done _anything_? Or would it have been better that I sit on my ass with a glass of wine while my boy could be anywhere? Hurt or-or God forbid something worse!” Cas wilts under her onslaught, hands waving like white flags. Kelly eases off him. “I searched it,” she begins again, “looking through his stuff for a clue that might help me find Jack. What I found was your information and, well… this.”

She offers another piece of paper, only Cas hesitates in accepting it. Instead he whistles a low, sad note and leans back in his chair. He questions her, “You think this is the right call? Giving _me_ this instead of the police? That I’ll know something they don’t?”

Kelly’s hand trembles, but her resolve stays firm. “When Jack and I did talk… and I mean actually talk, about our days and how we were feeling, before it all went cross-eyed, he… he mentioned you. Quite a lot. The time you two spent together meant a lot to him, and I’m hoping you felt the same. Because the police? Jack isn’t anyone special to them. He’s one out of a million kids checking off boxes on a standardized list for teenage rebellion. So no, I don’t think you’ll have a better chance than them. I believe you actually _care_ about what happens to him.”

Cas digests her speech, the words knocking around in his stomach like rotten fish. Bile threateningly rises up his throat. He accepts the paper. Strokes the tattered edges from where Jack must have ripped part of it off and then sets it on his desk. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll look into it,” he clarifies, standing, “but I can’t promise any of the stones I turn over will be anything useful.”

Kelly rises, too, smiling. There’s a sad beauty to it, Cas imagining her expression on a big black-and-white screen. Watching her soldier love be whisked off, journeying towards a war he’ll surely die in, handkerchief fluttering from the gusts on the station platform. “Thank you,” she says while Cas leads her out, “thank you.”

“Okay, goodbye.” He shuts the door after her, then immediately slams against it. A sigh forces itself from his chest, and Cas drags his hands slowly down his face. Over his eyes, across his cheeks where stubble scratches the visiting skin. Cas stops when the pads of his fingers dig into his jawline, and then he sinks onto the floor. “Jack… what the hell happened, kid?”

Cas thought Jack finally got bored. Realized hanging around an old hippie like him became bothersome. That he found better options for how he spent his time…

He slaps his cheeks twice, “Well! Enough of that!” Cas crawls over to his desk, crushing a half-filled carton of rice and shoving an empty whiskey bottle from his path. He climbs into his chair, knees at his chest so he can rest his chin on them. First, he picks up the paper Kelly gave him, flips it around and realizes it’s actually a flyer.

From what Jack tore, he guesses it must be the header. Because the numbered list that remains, decorated with a broken border of flowers and interweaving vines, make no sense.

  1. _Your connections weigh on you and bring only sadness, cut them and free yourself so your soul may ascend into enlightenment_
  2. _The world is filled with sin, always waiting with new disappointment. Drop out of a life where expectations were imposed on you without consent_
  3. _You are broken. Because of your family, because of society. You cannot fix yourself but know that he can. Give your spirit over to him and allow his light to overpower the darkness eating away at you._



An impulse of running the flyer under his lighter, and then holding his joint near the burning embers, barges into mind. If it weren’t a clue Cas would do exactly that. The textual preachiness grates his nerves, turning his inner voice into one owned by a soft-spoken, balding Hare Krishna that can be caught congregating in parks with their orange robes and cymbals. He doubts they hold import in the case, though. Any decent cop would swing through these types of groups during the first sweep. Cursory inspections would’ve come across Jack without question, even if he were bald and dancing with bells strapped on his ankles.

It’s something else.

He sets the flyer aside and moves onto the waiting newspaper. The front cover boldly declares success for the Equal Rights Amendment, citing momentum from the National Organization for Women helping push the bill over the edge in the byline. Nixon’s face, smiling and waving for the cameras surrounded by his all-male tribe of yes-men, was chosen for the over-enlarged picture accompanying the text. Cas scoffs, flipping past this piece of news and dives deeper.

His gaze catches on a buried stub of an article, hidden between advertisements for a used car lot and a new set of condos opening up a few miles away. The latest death toll overseas, either from sudden loss on the battlefield or passing on in a cot with strangers draping the cloth over their body like an art. Cas does not linger on this page. Dark clouds already hung nearby, and he was not dressed for a downpour.

On the next page were reviews for upcoming movies. Cas stays there, scrolling through what critics think of the director’s style, the writer’s proficiency with dialogue, and other minutiae no one but they care about. Halfway into praise of Brando’s acting as the titular _Godfather_ he hears a knock on the door. “Come in!”

Andy breezes in, not bothering with closing the door after him. He curls into the chair Kelly vacated moments before, mirroring Cas. “Hey man,” he says, “you carrying?”

“You aren’t?”

“That girl you saw me with?” he counters, jerking his thumb towards the door, “Stole the last of my stash. I’m swinging by Serg’s tomorrow for a resupply, I’ll pick some up for you, too?”

Cas snorts, flicking the other joint in his ashtray at Andy. It whacks him on the nose and slips through his fingers. He watches Andy unfold and scavenge his messy floor for the grass, Cas plucking the silver lighter in his front pocket out. His thumb traces the wing carved onto the metal. Lights the nub of his joint and then does the same for Andy when he holds it by the flickering spark. “So,” he says through a mouthful of smoke, “did the girl steal your grass before or after you two fucked?”

“Never got the chance,” Andy discloses. After one drag, he slumps further into the chair with his legs hanging off the side. “There I was, rolling a long on – for us to share, cause I’m a romantic shit like that – and she tells me she wants to shotgun her first hit into my mouth. I close my eyes and wait, only it never comes. By the time I open my eyes she’s nowhere. Last I’ll ever trust a pretty face with grass…” Another drag, and suddenly Andy bounces up. “Anyway, figured you might have some grass I could bum. Plus, being conned makes me hungry… you want to take this sesh’ over to Singer’s?”

Cas shrugs, twirling the burning joint between his thumb and forefinger. “Kind of got a lot piled up in my brain basket, man. Not really in the mood for grub.”

“I vibe with that…”

He glances at the flyer, frowning. “Actually,” Cas says, “you mind if I show you something?” When Andy nods, Cas flashes Jack’s flyer at him. “Does this look familiar to you?”

Andy squints, lips wrinkling in displeasure. “Whoa… that’s harsh. Are you seriously unhappy? Wouldn’t have guessed it, myself.”

“No, it’s not mine,” Cas corrects him, “it was found in this kid’s room that’s gone missing. His old lady thinks it might have something to do with his disappearance.”

“Well, if he was unhappy then that would explain it.”

“It’s not –“ he sighs, kneading at his temple. Cas knocks a few ashes into the tray and then points with his grass at Andy. “Have you seen anything like this? Maybe stapled into posts or being handed out somewhere?”

Andy sucks on the joint, thinking. Cas waits, forgoing his own. Allows it to smolder, ignoring precious smoke. He only remembers it when the rolling paper burns high enough it singes his fingers. Cas frowns, stamping what little remained of it out.

“Now that you mention it…” Andy wonders aloud, while Cas kisses at the tiny blisters breaking onto his skin, “it does look familiar…”

“Where, Andy?”

“I think it was… no, wait – actually…”

☮☮☮☮☮☮☮☮☮

Andy last saw a woman in a billowy white shirt handing flyer after flyer like the one Jack had on an unknown street corner in Los Angeles proper last time he ventured there for a concert. “I remember her, of course,” Andy boasted from the passenger seat of Cas’s lemon-yellow Pontiac GTO, face pressed against the glass like he were a sunflower. “She had these big tits, and you could tell she was a bra burner if you know what I mean.”

Cas huffed, glaring at the road so he didn’t incinerate his passenger with the intensity of it. “Unfortunately, your masterful skills at describing the most important details are second to none.”

“Thanks, man. It’s a talent.”

He dropped his friend off at Singer’s after needling more directions from him. Then Cas began searching for ‘a really tall, abandoned building with wood boards nailed over everything, next door to a sex shop and across the street from a place that sells better tacos than the Shack on Gordita’. With no exact name, he circled the city for over an hour before settling by a hydrant midway on Artesia Boulevard. In front of the _Lovely Lacework_ sex shop, with an unobstructed view of the abandoned building. All five stories boarded up.

Only, in the midst of the afternoon chaos, Cas saw no white billowy shirt hiding big tits and hocking pessimistic leaflets of any kind. He waited for hours. In his car, legs stretched across the front cabin and the radio blasting with rocking chords that shook his car. Outside his car, lying on the side of his hood without the dried bird poop. Every now and then a wanderer slowed their trek and approached. Most of the time for a conversation, only once to tell him off about how he should get a job. “But I am working,” he sighed, fixing his shades, “and right now you’re messing with my groove. If you don’t mind…?” Fifteen minutes were wasted while the interloper stood on his soapbox, only stopping when Cas rolled off the hood and towered over him. He scurried away, head hung low. “Thought so.”

Thirty minutes passed since then. Now Cas sits on the sidewalk with a hubcap poking at his spine, feeling inescapably bored. “I fucking hate stakeouts.” He stands, stretching, balancing on the tips of his toes. Waits until he hears a gentle snap in his neck and then rocks onto his heels. Still no sight of the woman – or anyone – who might point him in Jack’s direction.

Cas decides a change in plans might help. He leaves his car and strides into _Lovely Lacework_.

A lavender wall smacks into him when he enters, tickling his nose. Cas wrinkles it, unprepared. He coughs and waves his hand in an attempt at dissipating the smell. Across the way, someone chuckles at his antics. Blinking through the tears, Cas sees the saleswoman stationed behind the register watching him. Incense burning on a stick near the edge. “It’s a subtle hint,” she tells him, voice raspy in that special way. Shivers climbing up his spine. “S’posed to promote comfort and arousal.”

Cas’s eyes roll in his head, the collection of toys and lingerie blurring together like a montage during their journey. “I would think that’s unnecessary given your stock.” He growls the last word while tugging on a leather whip end. She laughs again. Recovered from the attack on his sense of smell, Cas glides towards her. Drinks her in with the few steps, as much as he can. Her wavy brunette hair cascades like a waterfall around her tanned face. She smiles with deadly intent, a stark contrast with how she flutters her eyelashes. Distracting, hiding the predator waiting underneath. Cas especially commits her uniform to memory, the neckline accentuating perky assets. Helps her nametag be less discreet, too. _Pamela_. Cas imagines how that might sound rolling off his tongue, and then pictures his tongue doing much naughtier things. Later, though. Shaking his head, he leans on the counter and copies her smile. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Maybe,” she shrugs, barely an inch of space between their noses, “but I have no control over that. Smells are upper management concerns. My job is making pretty with the prudish squares who stop by and sell them junk that’ll give ‘em a taste other than vanilla.”

Cas hums. “Sounds like a difficult task. And they haven’t considered you for a promotion yet?”

“It’s actually easier than finding acid on the Dead.”

“Maybe if you worked over a harder mark?”

She rakes her gaze over his form, and he preens under the attention. “Well I am known for my… _delicate_ touch. You, however, might need a firmer hand.”

“Oh, so firm,” he admits, “especially since I didn’t come here as a customer… or to talk about sex.”

Pamela pouts, disengaging. “Bummer,” she says, pushing away from the counter. Switches into a more professional mask. “Figured you for a good time with how you swaggered in.”

“I am a good time,” Cas says, brows bouncing in their intent, “but business before pleasure… I came in to ask a few questions.” He produces the flyer, showing it to Pamela. “Do you know what this is?”

Pamela glances at it, frowning. “Not really. But I’ve seen these freaks passing them out every now and then on the corner. And not the good kind of freaks either.”

Cas’s grin widens. “Groovy. How often do they hang by the corner?”

“Actually, I haven’t seen them in a while,” she tells him, his expression winking out of existence as fast as it arrived. “The manager here and a few of the others on the block got together and drove them off. Said they were bad for business, scaring customers with their doom and gloom preaching. Wasn’t a lick of sense in the whole bunch, so I learned to tune them out.”

“I guess that means you wouldn’t know where they are now? Or who they were?”

“’Fraid not,” she says. Cas tucks the flyer into his back pocket and clears his throat, knocking on the counter. He tries abandoning ship, but Pamela tosses over a life preserver. Her hand atop his. “Wait,” she continues, “I might have something tucked deep down my memory hole. Buried under… other things – _heavy_ things, man. That I might need help digging up if you… dig?” Pamela squeezes his hand and then rakes her nails over the back of it.

Cas digs. “Would this be considered your break for the day?”

“I don’t know,” Pamela says, “if I use a toy or two, we can call the whole thing a demonstration and write it off. We have these new love beads that came in I’ve had my eye on… remind me of the beaded curtain separating the rest of my pad from my… _waterbed_.”

That triggers a new feeling inside. Unfortunately, it detracts from the overall mood Cas and Pamela were building. The warm intimacy simmering between them evaporates and the only pressing thought in Cas’s awareness is how he needs to pee. Bladder sloshing around like the aforementioned waterbed, dangerously surrounded by nails waiting for a misstep that will give way for major leakage.

His legs cross over each other. “Sounds interesting…” Cas chuckles, “I think I can spare a minute or two with some product testing. First, though, I think I should probably… freshen up?”

Pamela laughs, somewhat grating in the dire situation. “Oh honey,” she purrs, “you need the can?” His head nearly lolls off from how forceful he nodded. “Sorry, but that’s only for paying customers. You willing to buy those beads?”

Cas gropes around his pockets for loose change. He cannot even afford a condom. “Really?” he asks, “I figured I’d be paying in other ways?”

“Lovin’ ain’t got a market value.” Pamela removes her hand from his and fixes her shirt, tugging on the hem and revealing more of her cleavage. Cas whines in the back of his throat. “I’ve another hour before my shift ends. You manage to find somewhere you can relieve yourself and make it back by then, we can party.” She points at him, a ray of seriousness poking from behind flirty clouds. “And don’t think I won’t know. Last guy who tried telling me the drip on my leg was rain escaped the draft, and not by running north. Understand?”

He does. “I’ll be quick,” he tells her, waddling off and onto the streets once more. Cas’s gaze darts through the crowd, searching. Frantically looking for a safe haven that won’t turn him away. Each storefront he counts eats away at his hope. Whether from the long lines in front or the way shop owners stand guard with their brooms and glares, snarling at anyone dressed similarly to him. “Where the fuck can I piss?”

A cat hisses from the side. Cas startles, whirling around, watching it dart into view from the nearby alleyway. Rat dead in its maw, followed by an equally mangy cat of a different coloring. They step over feet and run, ignorantly, into the fray of traffic. Someone honks, and one of the cats shrieks. Both animals disappear behind the taco shop.

Cas peeks into the abandoned alley way, curious. There are a few trashcans, one tipped over with a ripped bag inches from the opening. Shadows cover most of the landscape though. More cats could lie in wait, still scouting for prey and not chasing after the first sign of fresh meat. Or there might be other animals, like raccoons, stray dogs that have high probabilities of carrying rabies, and so on.

His bladder reasserts itself. “I’ll fucking risk it.”

He situates himself in a dark corner of the alley way between two cans and facing the abandoned building. Cas unzips himself, bloated cockhead flopping into the stale air. “That’s why underwear’s useless…” he mutters to no one, aiming at the bend where structure meets asphalt and easing the locks on his floodgate. It trickles, and then rushes out of him. A hiss of pleasure leaves his lips as he adjusts his stance. Cas braces his free hand on the boarded-up window in front of him and slides one foot back when the puddle of his pee drifts close. His sandal catches on a loose piece of paper, and if he wore the cheap plastic ones like every other stoner instead of investing in his leather strapped beauties, he would have lost it in the struggle. What happens is Cas rights himself quickly, aided unknowingly by the piece of wood nailed onto the building.

Cas frowns, studying the grip. Out front, the doors and windows had wood stacked over every possible inch, no way of getting in. Whoever boarded those figured the sides needed less precision. Slapped on, a few spots allow for Cas to peek inside. Curiosity drove Cas closer.

He expected more darkness. Overturned furniture and dust everywhere, matching the condemned vibes of the exterior. What he saw caused a stutter in his stream.

First and foremost a janitor must have swept through at some point in the day. There were no cobwebs or dust bunnies hopping in their natural habitat. Hunted into extinction with how sanitary it looks. Shiny, polished, hard wood floors. A deep, red couch stationed between two bookcases. Two desks with lamps flicked on and half-eaten tacos forgotten on top –

Someone was in there recently.

“Pretty useless for a Peeping Tom to peep when no one’s around,” a whiskey-rich voice chuckles from behind, “or are you practicing for when you make your big debut?” Cas scowls, achingly familiar with that out-of-place midwestern twang. Held onto with a trademarked stubbornness.

Cas steps back, a tide rolling over his expression and smoothening the lines there. He reshapes the sands of his face into a more carefree alignment, smirking. “If you’re worried I’m switching careers Winchester, I’ll ease your troubles right now. I could never be a Peeping Tom… there’s no point in pleasure if the other person don’t know what’s going on.” He turns around without care, cock arcing. “I was only using it to pee detective, _honest_.”

His uninvited guest splutters, blushing. He drops his gaze towards Cas’s crotch, and then a hand waves in front while he averts his eyes. Although the splayed fingers terribly hide it from him, and Cas notices how the other man’s stare returns through the slats. “Seriously,” he growls, “I didn’t take you for one of those types, Cas.”

“And I didn’t think you were the type of man who approaches other men in dark alley ways, Dean,” Cas tells him, “so I guess we’re both trying new things today.”

Dean bristles at the accusation, the redness deepening on his fair skin. Cheeks looking absolutely sunburnt with embarrassment. “Just stuff it, Cas – in your _pants_!” he adds, stealing Cas’s first retort from him.

“It’s not like you haven’t seen one of these before, Dean.” Nothing. “Albeit, it’s probably larger than what you’re used to…” Cas sighs, waiting. Dean will not take the bait.

Aware of the impasse, Cas resigns to the role of bigger person. He exaggerates zipping up his pants, using the time for a quick inspection on the detective. An oversized suit with a hastily done tie, gun and badge hidden under the folds of his jacket. Hair gelled, with little globs of it and sweat beading across his freckled forehead from the hot, California sun. In the years they’ve crossed paths Dean never learned how to dress to fit in. Whether with the greater population of Mer La Vista or within his own force. 

Dean Winchester, a cowboy who roamed too far from his homestead, hitching up with the closest gang he could find. Unfortunately for him, those outlaws were better known as the Los Angeles Police Department. If it were fairness and justice Dean sought, he chose the wrong career path. Still his dedication to it, in the face of others with the same badge wholly abusing their powers whenever the winds blew left instead of right, was somewhat refreshing. Occasionally, Cas felt bad treating him like any other officer he would happen pass. In the beginning, he always needed reminding Dean wasn’t like that. But over time, the more Dean opened his mouth, he made peace with his guilt. Hollywood good looks and farmer’s sensibility poisoned as he sounded like every man with a badge, leaving ash on Cas’s tongue whenever he spoke his name. 

No good thing was meant to last, he supposes. Cas can play the role Dean imagined for him, donning a feathered headdress so his ‘cowboy’ can battle with the ‘indian’.

“Well,” he says, slapping his thighs, “I’m decent.”

Dean removes the failing barrier. Puts on a show at making sure Cas did as advertised, like he wasn’t watching Cas fold his cock back inside his corduroys with studious intent. Hollywood looks, without the Hollywood skills. He’s no Rock Hudson.

“Glory, glory, hallelujah,” he mutters, pocketing his hands. Dean advances, an attempt of casual intimidation hallmarked at the academies. “So, do you make it a habit of peeing in alley ways? Taking this _natural_ thing too far?”

“No, too far would be the shit I left a few blocks back outside the movie theater.” Cas’s joke earns no laughter, Dean’s dimples deepening the further his lips pull taut. Sighing, Cas levels with him. “I had to go, and this seemed like the easiest place.”

“Easier than an actual bathroom?”

“Easiest for a person like me.” Cas mirrors Dean now, a few questions stirring up in his mind. “What about you?”

Dean arches a brow. “What about me?”

“I didn’t think your jurisdiction went this far,” he shrugs, “Or are you so much of a goody two-shoes that you’re patrolling outside of it in your downtime?”

His comment struck at a weak point, knocking Dean off-rhythm. Dean let his guard slip for a second, enough for Cas to see a flicker of anxiety explode behind his eyes like a firework dud. “I was in the area,” Dean argues, tripping over his tongue, “not that I need to justify myself to you –“

“Oh, but you’re going to. I know it.”

“I was visiting a doctor,” he explains, stressing each syllable. Aggravation seeping into his tone and rising with each second. “Those people who can, y’know, legally prescribe medicine that isn’t sold out the back of vans?”

Condescension splatters across Cas’s face with a great deal of force. Cas wipes it off with practice, hardened against such messes. He searches for a response within his catalogue, filling the silence with a pointed stare that Dean volleys back, matching its heat.

Except, in his reflection, Cas feels rough edges digging into his palm. He eases the pressure of his grip and remembers his pockets were not empty like usual. Thinking about the flyer reminds Cas of why he traveled so far, of a worried Kelly, and a Jack that slipped past without knowing about it.

Cas abandons and concedes the fight. “Hey, you mind if I pick your brain about something?”

“What?” Dean scoffs, intent of continuing the game, “Finally thinking about trimming the mop on your head? I guess I can give you my barber’s name…”

“No, I was wondering if you’ve seen this before.” Cas shows Dean the crumpled flyer, waiting for a reaction.

There is one. Not what he thought, nor hoped.

Dean’s overinflated ego shrinks immediately when he sees what Cas holds. His eyes widen, green eclipsed by the dark pupils of recognition. He drags a hand over his mouth and rubs it along the edges of his jaw. Time ticks on unbearably slow the longer Dean searches the page. Arm tiring, Cas clears his throat. Reminds Dean that he is not alone. Dean darts a nervous gaze from the flyer to him, Cas seeing a strange tie-dye of emotions that sings a siren call for his inquisitive spirit.

In the next instant, walls reform. Frighteningly more sophisticated than the ones Cas has experience butting up against. Dean snatches the flyer from his grasp, despite Cas’s protests. “This is nothing,” he says, tearing into the paper with reckless precision. Not stopping until the shreds littered their feet. “Just hippie mumbo jumbo. I figured your brain hadn’t rotted enough that you’d fall for cheap tricks like this.”

“It wasn’t mine,” Cas huffs, cramming his fists back into his pockets in case they acted without his permission. “It was a _clue_ – related to a missing person’s case? This kid –“

“Oh, wow, a missing kid in Los Angeles. Why don’t you check the next street maybe they’ve smoked too much dope and washed up there?”

Cas squints, backing off from the other man. Concerned by the energy roiling off him like thunderclouds. His brow furrows with the acrid stench of both the alley way and Dean’s derision. “Is that where you and your brothers-in-arms look? If you care to at all?”

Dean slaps the barb away. “I could write you up for public indecency. Disturbing the peace.”

“From the start, but you haven’t. Why bring this up now?”

“Get out of here Novak,” Dean orders, any lingering amicability fading under the icy touch of using Cas’s last name. “Leave these types of cases to the professionals. Stick with what you know, like helping your buddies find their missing cars.”

Strategically, there is no point in provoking an officer already dangling over the edge. But Dean makes Cas’s mind mushy and irrational. He listens, but not without a memorable goodbye. “Hopefully the next time you see my cock again we won’t be in an alley and you’ll be in a far better mood.” Cas winks, ignoring Dean’s roar and striding off towards his car.

He slams into the front seat, starting the engine with the key he left inside. Before he leaves, Cas waits for Dean. Watches him re-emerge from the alley, flapping the sides and then re-buttoning them. Dean slips the steely policeman’s visage off and allows for a trembling breath, clutching at the abandoned building. In the next moment, he reorients himself. Stiffens and leaves, disappearing around a corner.

Cas stays, engine idling, coughing up exhaust. The radio returned with a vengeance as another rock song starts up that shatters the odd silence.

His brain hurts, and Cas’s mouth desperately misses the sweet taste of grass. He searches his breast pocket and only finds his lighter. Cas faces the pushpins on his mental corkboard alone.

A missing Jack. Flyers and the strange people who printed them. An abandoned building with working electricity and now Dean Winchester. Too many coincidences for Cas to tune out the whole experience as one bad trip. He is plummeting down this rabbit hole at frightening speed.

Although what it all leads to, Cas cannot begin imagining. He always figured Dean for a clean, copper penny. But from how he acted, there was grime hiding on the underside. Waiting for when the right person picked him up and let it show.

Cas looks out the window, spies inside _Lovely Lacework_. He cannot see Pamela from where he sits, but knows she's there. “Some other time I guess,” Cas sighs, pulling from the curb and onto the streets.

There’s another lady on his mind now, the same from when he started this morning. The one that let him in on today’s secret with thrashing waves and explosive spray. The sea. Even this far inland he can conjure up her scent, salt dried into his skin from countless days spent in her presence. He sees her in his mind, in his car, as easily as he did standing on the shoreline.

She was angry then, too. Like she swallowed something rotten and was waiting for the chance to send it back up. Something huge that, when it splashes onto the shore like a beaching whale, will leave no one dry.

And Castiel, in his stupidity, disregarded her warnings. Waded into her rising tides.


	2. bad rap sheet, man

_Smoke curled up from the joint dangling between Cas’s fingers, rising in puffs that flatten when they hit the roof of his car’s cabin. Lightning flashed in the distance, followed by a riotous boom that thundered alongside a sickening power chord. He chuckled, “Mother Nature must really be digging this groove.”_

_“Of course she would. Only dull plastics can resist Hendrix’s power…” Jack coughed, gesturing for the joint. “You gonna hand that over?”_

_“I don’t know, did you roll it?” Cas surrendered it, snickering. “Kids these days… all this talk about sharing the wealth, but not when it comes to their grass…”_

_Jack brought the joint to his lips and sucked deep, its cherry bright red amidst the manmade fog. Highlighted further by the currents pouring across the windows and curtaining the outside streetlamps. “Yeah, it’s my grass,” he said on an exhale, “it’s been my grass the last three times. When are you bringing your own?”_

_“Not my fault I somehow smoke my stash before we hang.” Cas grinned, leaning over and rustling Jack’s shaggy hair. “Like the universe knows or some other philosophical shit…”_

_“Or you could buy more?”_

_“Or I could buy more.” Jack and he laughed as another thunderclap echoed across the sky, overpowering Cas’s speaker system. Cas sighed and looked out the window, “Great night for a stakeout, huh?”_

_When Cas first told Jack about his plans, he thought it would be perfect for field learning. The case was low risk – a husband suspecting his wife of having an affair with her coworker. He sat three tables away while they shared lunch and overheard pointless gossip between her and another woman through grocery aisles. No hint of any adultery. Tonight, he intended on hammering the final nail in by taking pictures of her enjoying a dinner with overseas client. Present them and then school his client on how being a working woman and a cheater were two ducks that didn’t swim in the same pond._

_But then Mother Nature’s heart won out, and she let loose fierce tears over the city. He heard the first rain drops hit when he showed Jack how to operate his camera. By the time Cas finished explaining, their golden hour was up._

_Now they sat hoping for a lull that seems farther and farther away._

_“Hey Cas,” Jack started, “Can I ask you something?”_

_“Free country, man, no matter what Nixon thinks. What’s weighing on you?”_

_Jack paused, taking another hit from the joint. “How would you go about…” He shifted, pulling a knee up and resting his arms on it. “If you were asked to find someone, how would you go about it?”_

_Cas raised a skeptical brow and snatched back the joint. “I would tell them to hit up another idiot who’d be willing to take the bait.”_

_“Well, what if you were that idiot. What would you do?”_

_He mulled over his options. Deflection could work if he tried it until Jack gave up. But Cas knew Jack’s patience ran longer than his. With how he chewed on the love beads dangling around his neck, Jack waited eagerly for an answer. Jack would not budge no matter how many times Cas pushed. Useful if he ever fully committed to Cas’s life, but right now all it gets him is his way._

_Plus, Cas has a nasty habit of rolling over easier than a dog with a treat for the kid._

_“I guess I’d begin with where the client tells me to go,” Cas said, shrugging, staring at the joint instead of Jack. “Usually they have their own ideas, and while it’s never right… it’s a jumping off point. There’s probably a clue there that will lead me where I need to go next. Like breadcrumbs in a forest.”_

_“What if the client didn’t have any idea?” Jack asked._

_“Then at least they’d have a name – I’d hope. You get a name, you can get anything,” he explained, “County records, newspapers… hell, if they’re shady I can hit up a few seedier parts of town and see if anyone knows them. We all leave a trail, and the harder we go about trying to cover that up the more intricate the web gets, and the easier it is for you to make a mistake. If there’s one there’ll be a whole lot more.”_

_Jack hummed, Cas using the brief respite for a quick hit. He barely has the smoke in his lungs when the younger man continued. “Is it hard? Finding people? Is that why you wouldn’t want to take it?”_

_“Listen, Jack,” Cas sighed, pinching the space between his brow. “Missing person’s cases they’re… it’s a tricky thing. Sometimes people disappear because they played the wrong game and ended up losing more than they bargained for, other times it’s random and can’t be pinned down with a good enough reason. But then there are… there are the people who follow the wind on their own call. Make the choice and disappear because they know where they were, who they were then, it wasn’t working. And I get that. Sometimes you just wanna not exist…” Cas sucks on the dwindling embers of Jack’s grass and stabs it into the dashboard, dropping the nub at his feet. His shoulders hurt from how low they hang. “Who am I to get in the way of freedom?”_

_“Is that what you think about me?”_

_“What?”_

_“Do you think that’s why I left?” Jack asked, voice hollower than earlier, “Because I wanted the freedom? To get away?”_

_Cas turned and faced Jack, gasping. Instead of red-rimmed hazel eyes, gaping black holes stared at him. Jack looked deathly pale. He jumped back, slamming into his car door. Broke the window and let the rain in. Torrents of it stabbed him, soaked through his jacket and rushed past him and into his car. He felt the water rise up to his ankles. “Jack?”_

_Jack leaned forward, smiling. “Do you think you can find me?” Faster than he could blink, he reached out and struck. Squeezed his neck and dragged him until their foreheads touched. Jack’s breath smelt like rotten eggs. Water kept pouring in and now sat at his chest. “Or do you think I don’t want to be found?”_

Cas wakes with a yell, hitting his head on his roof and biting his tongue. “Dammit,” he huffs. Rubs at the bump hidden under his hair while staring cross-eyed, trying for a glimpse of any wound on his tongue. He cannot find one. “Dammit,” Cas sighs, relaxing in the back seat, “fucking dream… that’s what it was.” A twisted nightmare of a memory from when he last saw Jack.

Two months ago, barely a week into the new year. They rung in ’72 with a party of their own while waiting for drier weather. It never did clear up and Cas drove Jack home with nothing but an empty stomach. On the road they talked about when they could pick up the case again and snap a picture that would stick. Except the husband called them off next day, divorce papers drying in his pocket. He went ahead and left without needing evidence of her suspected infidelity, and without paying them. Cas figured that broke the spell over Jack’s eyes and let him in on the secret of Cas’s life. That it was not as exciting nor heroic like he imagined. And because he had no further use for him, Jack tossed Cas aside where he belonged.

But that night… Did he ask about missing persons because he wanted tips on staging his own disappearance, or was there something more Jack kept from him?

Something taps on his window. Cas scowls and glances behind him, seeing a younger, blonde girl waiting. He rolls the window down, “What?”

She sticks her hand inside, flower stem clutched tight within her fist. Her eyes dully bore into his, like nothing sparks under their shallow surface. “Flower?” she asks.

Cas studies the gift, petals bunched together as if it were tulle or cotton candy, its pink coloring not helping with the similarity. He accepts it, offering a cautionary sniff. “Thanks?”

“Thank you,” she says. Out the corner of his eye he sees a dark shadow dashing across the street, suspiciously hurry. “Do you have a –“

“Sorry, kind of busy at the moment.” He quickly rolls the window up and shifts to the other side of his car. Face pressed against the glass; Cas watches the suit-clad man hurry past the ‘abandoned’ building from the other day. Yelling after a young couple pushing a stroller. When they stop he does, gasping, holding a pacifier they must have dropped. “Seriously?” Cas slumps in his seat, turning from the scene and onto the building once more. Still presenting as an empty shell even though Cas knows life teems behind its walls.

When Dean forced him from the area, Cas couldn’t shake the idea of returning. From sunset to sunrise he turned over the immaculate study and the food wrappings, not even a midnight toke could settle his mind. It chanted a mantra loud enough, the only way he could quiet it was by listening. So, he listened. Drove up the next day and paid closer attention to his former makeshift toilet.

First, he skulked the alley way in case he missed something. Peeked inside through the slats from before, except every light was extinguished. “Too early for ‘em, I guess,” he mused, stepping back. Cas heard a crunch, having stepped on something. He pulled his foot off and squinted at it, squatting when his vision fails him.

It’s wet with the rancid juices known for leaking out of trash cans. Made reading damn near impossible, except a few sentences were salvageable. While objectively different from Jack’s leaflet – the one whose remains still haunted the grounds from when Dean killed it – the paper carried similar energy. In how it spoke of leaving pasts behind and a call towards action in following whoever’s name that’s now nothing more than an orange stain. Cas searched for more papers that might continue this story except the remaining trash in the alley way was exactly that.

Figured he done all he could, Cas moved on. Emerged from the shadows and made a harsh pivot up the building’s steps. He scanned the surrounding area for any onlookers, glad the morning crowd wore their tired indifference to work. His luck fell short after that, because the front door handle would not budge.

Cas hadn’t expected it would. An overabundance of wood nailed in across the front meant these realtors were familiar with the many practices of most hippies. If they laxed security even the slightest, they would have stormed and converted the space into a new tribal community; instead a flock of suits nested behind the protective warding. Somehow, they must have found their own entrance. After a strong show at pushing, Cas noticed the hinges on the outside. With wood and nails keeping it checked, there was no walking in there.

He abandoned the front, hopping down each step one by one. Considered the scenario before him. To a casual observer, the building was empty. Cas knew it presented as a lie. Why that was, Cas can string together a few guesses from past experiences. The only theory that won’t curdle his stomach is that the operation running within wanted little interference.

And that opened the floodgates on a number of other reasons – none which eased his mind, all pointing neon arrows towards the possibility it was connected with Jack’s disappearance.

He swatted away the bad vibes, focusing on objectivity instead of letting them bog his awareness down. If the main door proved fruitless, there must be another way in. When he checked the alleyway, Cas saw no secret opening or a hidden fire escape. But there were two other sides to these squares he had yet seen. Cas opted for the easiest and rounded the corner.

It’s much cleaner than the wall in the alley way. Prettier, too, with some help from the neighborhood locals. Swirls of paint smeared in psychedelic patterns decorated this side. He took a moment and appreciated the scenery, following the patterns over brick and wood until finally coming across what he needed.

Another door, simpler than the first. Cas moved closer inspecting it. Ran a hand over the sole wooden board that fit perfectly within the frame; only two nails barely secured at the ends. He then tried this knob, finding it locked like the other. Cas ran his thumb over the keyhole and felt scratches on it. “Jackpot.”

For peace of mind, Cas quickly glanced at the next-door building. A fleeting thought of a secret entrance hidden in the back flit through. One he deftly quashed by reading the non-lit neon sign advertising tattoos on top. Tattoo parlors did not scream narc front as much as massage parlors and coffee shops did.

While Cas discovered the entrance hours ago, he did nothing more than park across the street from it as the morning rush to pick up. He settled for a professional sit-in, aware of how tedious this part of his day will become. Kicked his sandals off, migrated towards his backseat and performed his best interpretation of a statue. Glaring at the door, waiting. Within the first hour of his stakeout Cas saw a man whose uniform screamed corporate sneak inside the building between harried commuters. Cas smirked, celebration rising slowly from within his chest.

However, his good mood faded like every other high. While more people entered the building, hardly anyone left. He grew bored once more.

“Can somebody please do something,” he begs the universe, “otherwise I might need to knock some dominoes over myself…”

Cas presses his forehead on the window, eyes staring at the door but not really paying attention. He feels the heaviness return, the siren calls of sleep whispering in his ear backtracked by his growling stomach. In Cas’s addled state that morning he forwent eating, a choice he regrets with each passing second. After a rather loud rumble that would put many California quakes to shame, Cas hears a gentle snap.

The gifted flower lies crumpled in his lap, its petals smushed and stem in hand. Cas frowns and drops the broken piece. Picks up the flower and brushes a finger across one petal. Static buzzes within his mind, a line between dots yearning for a connection. Almost touching like God and Adam straining between the clouds. They only need stretch a bit further, aided by the intense stare Cas keeps on the flower.

His attention drifts, and the moment fades. A man in a dark suit stands at the door of the abandoned building, stalling too long for any casual reason. He slips a key into his pocket, tips the brim of his fedora further down, and snags a waiting briefcase on the sidewalk next to him. Then the stranger begins his exit.

Cas scrambles out of his car, barefoot, barely closing the door as he follows his mark.

He crosses the street, and so does Cas – albeit on the other side. Watches him while barreling through pedestrians going the other way as if he were a salmon swimming upstream. Cas ignores disgruntled men and women while keeping an eye on the other man. Studies the careful way his hat protects from getting a good look at his face, and the stiff gait he walks with. Like he traversed through rotted sewers instead of a regular Los Angeles city street. Whoever Cas followed did not seem accustomed to the usual blindness that struck after facing the same oddness day-after-day. He nearly runs over a man lazing near a hydrant, Cas thankful that the angle showcases the cleanness of his jaw and its heavy scowl he presents threateningly at his obstacle.

The stranger turns another corner on his journey, and Cas pounds asphalt. Beats the counter as the traffic whizzes past and blows at his hair. Cas smoothens his shirt, takes a calming breath and continues.

One final block and the stranger’s pace relaxes, too. Cas carries on, and strolls by him while he chats with a vendor selling fruit outside his storefront. When he reaches the next corner, Cas lays himself flat against the edge. Peers around said edge, locking onto the leather briefcase that practically announces its value with how it beautifully reflects the late sun’s glow. Then his gaze drifts nearby at the gun tucked carefully away under his suit jacket. The handle peeking from behind the flaps when he pays the vendor for a banana. He turns and Cas hides again. Listens for the telltale clicks of his heels growing closer. A black wingtip shoots forward first, and Cas spins into the stranger with careless force. Knocks them both onto the ground, files fluttering around them after a very convincing nudge from his pointer finger.

“Whoa, sorry man,” Cas offers a wide smile, sprawled over the stranger. He pulls his bangs away from his face and mimics the tonality of his neighborhood, “are you okay?”

The stranger splutters, dark eyes sharp like knives pointed directly at Cas. “I’d be better if there wasn’t this massive weight crushing me,” he sniffs, shoving at him. Of what he expected, a British accent was not on his list. Cas hides his surprise, feigning ignorance by blinking and tilting his head. This stokes the flames of the stranger’s anger further. “Get off!”

“Oh, right!” Cas crawls off of the stranger, kicking, and into the sea of manila spread across the sidewalk other pedestrians avoid. They give him and the British Invader a wide berth, knowing if they drifted too far into their orbit it would mean getting involved. “Y’know, usually I’m so careful,” Cas tells him, chuckling, “I’m always focusing on everything because each living thing gives off their own energy and – and it’s so beautiful man, you don’t even know. I do this kind of meditation that helps increase my own personal aura that lets me see what a lot of people don’t. I swear, each time I finish it’s like the colors get brighter and every day is a rainbow!”

The stranger grumbles non-committedly, too focused on gathering his files. Cas accepts his reply as a request for more information and adds to the already inane chatter. White noise that makes the stranger tense while frantically piling files into his briefcase. Distracted, he misses the one Cas stuffs into his pants.

“…If you have a pen, I can totally give you the address of my guru who guides me through the exercises! I can sense you would benefit greatly from it, your aura is so – it’s so green. Not a good green though, the sickly kind you see when you’re… sick –“

“I’m fine with that,” he interrupts, closing his briefcase and standing. He brushes dirt from his suit, huffing. “I’d be fine with never seeing you again, too.”

Cas bends the knee, pouting. “Well that’s too bad. I think us meeting was meant to be – you know everything happens for a reason.” Snatching the banana that tumbled off to the wayside, Cas holds it out for the other man.

“Stupid hippies,” he growls under breath, digging into his pockets for a brief moment. He takes his banana and hurls a quarter at Cas, it bounces off his chest and onto the ground. “Why don’t you get a haircut?”

Cas waves to his retreating figure. “I’ll think about it,” he promises, smile fading the further the stranger advances, “if you take the stick out of your ass, Ringo.” Cas picks up the quarter and looks at the vendor, stationary audience for the whole scene. Hand hovering nearby his merchandise in case Cas takes a share from the community, mask crafted into bored indifference. Cas passes the quarter onto the vendor and blindly snags an apple. Juice leaks down his chin from a single bite, and Cas sighs praises between his chews.

He makes it half a block from his car when Cas decides he cannot wait to read what he liberated. With how it rested inside his waistband, its edges dug into his cock and poked it far past the point of pleasure. Cas drops onto an unoccupied stoop he finds and drags the file free from its hiding spot.

Sticky fingers peel the folder open, staining the pristine cover with his prints. Cas lays the file on his knees while sucking the juice from off his fingers, scanning the first page.

It’s a rap sheet, made obvious by the bold declaration of ‘Rap Sheet’ underlined at the top of the paper. A mugshot rested underneath this headline showing a white man with dark bloodshot eyes that were rimmed with purple bags. Cas set aside the half-eaten apple and brings the picture closer. Notices the cut hidden at the hairline, blurred by the black-and-white coloring, the unshaven jaw set in a tense line, as well as the stains splattered across his wrinkled shirt that disappeared behind the Los Angeles Police Department letter board.

Richard ‘Dick’ Roman. In his early forties now, but at the time of his most recent arrest he was thirty-seven. Given the list of offenses, though, he seemed to have a long history with the law since he was twenty-three way back in 1954. Small skirmishes here and there, egged on by the drink if ‘Drunk & Disorderly’ were to be believed. At least twelve of these offenses were listed, along with their status. There had even been an accidental manslaughter charge brought against him in 1962. While Dick had been charged for all of these, he never was convicted. Cas scowls as he finds Dick’s employment history. “I thought the name sounded familiar…”

Roman Ventures competed with hippies for fair use of real estate, rolling over art with their cookie cutter advertising. Spouting off about their excellent team of investors guided in a mission to help clients hoard their money smartly, spearheaded by a stock market guru who capitalism spit from her womb like he was Venus emerging from the shell.

The ads weren’t _that_ creative. If they used Cas’s embellished message, he would think of them with an inch more respect than he currently does. Although Cas’s finger runs over the typed print where it says, ‘Formerly President of Roman Ventures, LLC’. “What are you up to now, Dick?”

He glosses back through the charges, pausing at the bottom. This charge is different than the others. ‘Unlawful Organization & Resisting Arrest’, five years after the last time the police brought him in for being drunk in public. Cas looks up from the page and spots a young couple drifting through town with no intention other than enjoying the sun and the grass they shared. They were more likely to have a charge like this thrown at them then an alcoholic investor who played the system like a fiddle.

Cas moves onto the next few pages and finds a short report dated around the last time the police brought Dick in for a drunken rampage.

Two conversations were printed out, one with Dick’s wife and the other a coworker of his. Each detailed the series of events that led to police being called. From stumbling in the early morning hours, smelling like a bar’s bathroom littered with cigarettes. How after nearly striking his wife, Dick was forced out of his house by the pool boy until he ultimately left following ten minutes of yelling and slamming the front door. From there Dick visited his former place of business.

“All he did was justify the board’s decision of firing him,” Ted Gaines said, “Showing up drunk like that, worst I’ve ever seen him. Damn near broke the half-filled bottle over Annie’s – his assistant’s – head. If the guards didn’t pin him to the ground until the cops showed up I don’t… it’s hard to say what might have happened. But from what he kept muttering while they took him away I… it would not have been good.”

“What a kind leader…” Cas sighs, setting the report back into the folder. He flips through the documents compiled within, frowning when it seems there is nothing else. Cas grabs the rap sheet again and stares at it. Falls back along the steps and lifts the page over the sun. Doing so reveals a square shadow hiding text. “Huh?”

Turning it over, Cas finds a post-it note stuck on the unmarked side. He peels it off, dropping the rap sheet. “Operation Carnation,” he mumbles, reading, “Roman adapted within two months… seventy-five percent of assets… positive correlation with other test subjects…” Whatever else was written Cas cannot understand between the bad handwriting and smudging.

He places everything back into the folder, standing. Cas continues his trek towards his car, small distance made longer by his sluggish pace. Thoughts too occupied for anything faster.

His acquisition, on its own, seems like a case separate from Jack. Why would a British man have access to records like this, with sensitive information and details? If he has Dick Roman’s file – what others were inside that briefcase? If there _are_ more, who else has access to them? And what is ‘Operation Carnation’?

Cas scratches his head, chuckling. “If I’m not too careful, I’ll start sounding like those kooks down by the bluffs…” But paranoia isn’t in the driver’s seat, instead comfortably tied up in the trunk. His instincts have their hands tight on the wheel. They tell him the trickling stream of consciousness holds merit unlike others he crafted over the years. Especially because there’s more backing them then flashes only he sees after intense smoking sessions.

He stumbled onto something. Cas may only have a piece of the story; he plans on getting more. Trusting that before the ‘happily ever after’ he will find Jack. “I have to.”

At his car, he feels a light brush across his toes as he steps down. Picking his foot up, Cas spots the incredibly damaged flower from earlier. Cas bows and collects the flower, squinting at it. Adam and God, interrupted earlier, finally touch while Cas utters a short gasp. “A carnation.”

It’s a sign. Cas’s confidence booms now backed by both logic and fate.

He hurries into his car, starting the engine. Glancing at his rearview mirror, Cas checks the color of the sky. Doing so only takes a few seconds, but his stare lingers. Away from the cloudless blue and towards a captivating black shape perched nearby.

Following the bend of the curb, half a muscle car rests. Its other half hidden behind the flower shop situated there. Tucked behind the lush color of cut stems and verdant foliage, a person could easily spy on the ‘abandoned building’ if it wanted. Cas figures it must have rolled in sometime during his watch, knowing that if it were there when he first arrived Cas’s attention would have been divided between the case and whoever owned that beautiful ride. “If they look as good as their car…”

He shakes his head, shutting the lid on his overflowing gutter. There are more important things that need doing, which meant ‘himself’ was knocked onto the lowest rung. Cas checked the file one last time before dumping it on the other side of his bench.

Pressing on the gas, Cas drives onto his next destination.

In the reflection of his rearview mirror, the black car inches out of its space.

* * *

Cas rolls to a stop in front of the security kiosk, grinning behind shades at the guard on duty. “What’s happening, man?” he flashes a crooked peace sign.

The salt-and-pepper guard rocking a broomstick mustache paired alongside a cheap tie responds with a bored stare and croaky voice. “What business are you here for?”

“I have a meeting with Mrs. Roman?”

“One moment, sir.” He stabs at the phone to his right with careful precision, picking up the handset only when the final number was hit. Cas hears it ring and squeezes his wheel, foot tapping on the pedal. “Hello, yes?” the guard says, “Mrs. Roman, there’s a man here for you. His name?” He hides the receiver against his shirt, “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t” Cas tells him, tongue curdling from the acid in his tone, “It’s Will. Will Bexler. I’m writing a –“

“It’s a Mr. Will Bexler, ma’am,” the guard says into the phone once more. He nods, Cas’s script sinking into his throat. A few more pleasantries were exchanged before he drops the phone onto its hook and sends Cas along. “You’ll have to make a left the first chance you see, and then hang a right at Mr. DeVenti’s – it’ll be the house with the windmill on its lawn. Roman’s house is the last one there you can’t miss it.”

“…Thank you, sir.” Cas tries the peace sign again, “Peace and love.” The guard unfolds a newspaper without saying a word. “Great…” he mutters, driving through and into the community. Immediately he spots a massive house straining towards the sky, painted a nauseating orange with a red-tiled roof. Spanish inspired, like every other building strung up in Santa De Maria Properties.

Fitting, given the last time Cas was in the area it was a small Mexican-American community on the verge of being bulldozed by developers. Cas remembers a time when he and his friend Cesar sat outside his porch and shared grass, discussing horrible futures such as that. “Don’t know where I would go,” Cesar muttered, flicking the nub to the ground, “I grew up here, man. Why should I abandon ship when those pasty assholes can kick up their heels anywhere else?”

Cas hummed in sympathy, “Because where else can they smell the sea air and feel proud for dislocating a group of people.”

Cesar laughed, and then offered Cas a beer from inside. He agreed. Sooner than they could uncap the drinks, Cas had Cesar on the counter; sucking a bright, purple mark into his neck. That was the last night they spent together. From his latest postcard, Cesar survived his displacement well enough. Shacked up with an artist and relocated south of the border on a farm. Always insisting Cas should visit, when he finds the time. Cas saw the picture of his boyfriend –if he ever wanted to experience hardships as a marshmallow glued between two graham crackers, Cas would start hiding his grass now.

His memories fade, Cesar and his community pushed out once more by these ugly monuments. He pauses at a stop sign while a realtor leads a young couple across, his blabbering about property investment grating on Cas’s nerves. Cas honks when they are halfway across, startling them. Three sets of glares train on his car while he makes the turn, Cas’s laughter accompanying the rev of his engine.

At the end of the guard’s simple directions, Cas finds himself in the eye of the hurricane. Mrs. Roman’s street ends with a roundabout that acts as an entrance for the gold medal of extravagance. A lighthouse that guides others in how to succeed in capitalism when you are already on the top. Cas eases the brakes until his car sits directly across from the front entrance, body stiff.

While exiting his car, slamming the door with more force than necessary, he catches a curious homebody spying through a nearby window. He waves and the curtains flutter closed. He doubts she will pose a problem. When Cas realized where Mrs. Roman lived, he knew showing up as he normally looked would lead to trouble.

Gazing up at grand villa, leaning on his car’s roof, he applauds himself for the initiative of changing on the way over.

Cas carried a strange array of clothes in his trunk – keeping his paranoia company, he joked whenever asked. Over the years he built up a selection of disguises that best fit certain cases, and different pieces of those full sets were buried in his ride when no longer needed. While most times he finds the unwashed pile annoying, Cas dare not disturb the patchwork collection. His inventory perfect for on-the-fly jobs where he needs a new look in a pinch. This was one of those times.

He tugged on the lapels of his rumpled jacket, wincing where it squeezed. “I fit this… no hassle last time…” Cas sucked in a deep breath and finally the button cooperated. Although further breathing became more complicated. At least the boots he found distract from suffocation, as each step the leather chafes his bare ankles. When finished Cas bets he will have a new blister. Pain is worth it seeing how he needs to reflect some sort of professionalism instead of the beach bum vibes he normally radiates. Beach bums are rarely tolerated in the fancy communities of the rich.

He advances on the door, shadowed by the long awning that stretched from the curb to the front step, and stabs the doorbell. A woman yells from the other side, “Coming!”

Cas casts a wayward glance at the yard, wilted flowers lining the window boxes and grass so brittle and gray. His heart beats a sad rhythm for the corpses on display. Mourning was cut short, however, when the door swung open.

“Hello?” the woman says, brow raised above an expensive pair of shades, “Can I help you?” She leans on the handle, her other hand punching a jutted hip, and wears an open silk robe that cover her cobalt blue bathing suit. A tiny scar, paler than the rest of her, pokes from the waistband of her bikini brief, the only line on her body. Her face smoother than a marble statue, a benefit of wealth no doubt. Never need wince or frown when supported by the strong arm of the all-American dollar. Her brunette hair cascades like a waterfall in a style he saw on the cover of a magazine some time ago. Anyone else would be fooled by her youthful façade, but Cas know who she is.

Still, Cas plays the game. He relaxes, parting the clouds on his face and flashing a sun-like grin. “Good afternoon. Are you Eve Roman?”

Eve tenses, inching the door closed. “That depends. Who is asking the question?”

“Sorry, this is Will Bexler – I called you earlier on the phone?”

Barely an hour passed since he rung Eve. Cas waited by a random phone booth out in the middle of nowhere, halfway between one point of civilization and another. Ringing and ringing while dust from the barren, scrub-covered land blew in the wind. As he considered hanging up and trying again, someone finally answered. “Hello?”

“Hi,” he said, “I’m looking for Dick Roman… is he home?”

The woman on the other end clucked her tongue, Cas imagining the judgmental head shake. “Mr. Roman has not lived here for quiet some time, sir, I apologize if you wasted your time –“

“No!” Cas shouted, wincing. He lodged the receiver in the crook of his neck, fishing for the file papers he stuffed into his pockets. “If Dick isn’t there – I, uh…” Cas finds the report he needed, scanning it. “Can I speak with Eve, then? Mrs. Roman?”

The paper in his grip crinkled under a crushing grip, Cas hoping the other line won’t go dead, face dangerously close to the faded dial pad. Finally, he heard a sigh and, “I will go get her.”

“Thank you so much.”

A few minutes passed and Eve joined the call. “You can hang up now, Tracy.” _Click!_ “So? Why are you calling for my _ex-husband_?”

Cas winced, “I… I called for you?”

“After my maid told you he wasn’t here.” Eve coughed; shuffling captured by her phone. “Well? I _was_ in the middle of something.”

He laughed, stalling while the loose threads of his plan reform. “Y’see, I’m a reporter for the Los Angeles times and, well – I was given the greenlight for this project. Charting the path of the Investment Prince. Your uh… former spouse, for a new book. It’s my first longform project like this, and I have all these secondary sources but I think if I were to have a conversation with Dick or someone who knew him it –“

“Ugh, please stop,” Eve said, “you talking… it’s like getting my teeth drilled with no drugs.”

“…Thank you?”

“You’re welcome. If that’s all? I’ll let you go back to your… what was it?”

“A book,” Cas repeated, hands shaking, teeth grinding, “Heavily anticipated. People really want to know what happened to your husband… one of those things like when people rubberneck car crashes? The publishing company promised that it would bring a lot of acclaim… maybe even to the people I feature in it?”

Eve stayed silent for a while; enough Cas wondered if she left. But then she continued, “How much acclaim?”

“Depending on the amount of dirt I manage to uncover, it could very well be its own movie with Robert Redford.”

She readily agreed to a meeting, asking Cas if he could squeeze in an interview before dinner. Cas dashed over without a second thought.

“Right, Mr. Bexler…” Eve chews her lip, dipping the shades and revealing the dark gaze she hid beneath. A nervous shiver runs up his spine. “Okay, yes.”

“Yes?”

“You can come in,” she turns and walks without prompt. Cas hurries after her, nearly stepping on her heels.

“Funny,” Cas chuckles, “sounded like you were still on the fence about our interview?”

Eve answers his laugh with some of her own, bells twinkling in her voice. “I was,” she tells him, “but lucky enough you were hotter than I was expecting.” His jaw drops, unsure how he should respond. Eve bulldozes past the need for any. “Would you care for anything? I already had something to drink, but if you were –“

“I’m good –“

“Cigarette, then?”

Cas shrugs, “I can smoke, I guess.”

Eve smiles, “Perfect.” They enter what looks like a kitchen, with advanced appliances, wooden cupboards hanging over marbled counters, and a fully stocked wine rack that runs from ceiling to floor. Another woman stands nearby it, between that and an open screen door showing part of a backyard. She runs a feather duster across each bottle, swatting dust off arrhythmically. Cas trails his gaze downward, appreciating the curve and how the cut of her dress ends before her ass does. His cock rises somewhat imagining a scene where it were gone completely, and all her beautiful copper skin were on display.

“Tracy!” Eve calls, clapping. Tracy faces them, hair bouncing from the spin. His next smile is more genuine, compelled naturally. It falls the more Eve speaks. “Can you please fetch me and my guest a cigarette, and a lighter? Quickly!”

“Right away, Mrs. Roman.” She sets the feather duster on the counter and opens a nearby drawer, pulling out some Marlboros and a lighter. Tracy hands them off to both of them, and then holds a small flame up. It drifts close, nearly singing Eve’s fingers. But Tracy finds the end of the cigarette soon enough. She offers Cas the flame next, expression schooled in neutral disdain.

“It’s okay,” Cas shrugs, producing his own lighter, “I can do my own.” She flicks the flame off and grabs the feather duster again.

Eve scoffs, “Working man, through and through.” She takes a long, first drag off her cigarette, blowing the smoke through a tiny puncture in her lips. “Come, we can do the interview on the terrace.”

“Okay…” He tries for one last glimpse of Tracy, except she floated off into another part of the house. Cas does not linger in the kitchen long, stepping into the backyard and the raucous screaming of children.

Two of them splash in an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Probably longer than three vans parked one after the other. A young girl kicks waves in the shallow end, playing inside a ring-shaped floatie. On the other side her older sister swims all over under the watchful eye of a shirtless, golden chested man in the tiniest briefs Cas ever saw. The man looks up and meets Cas’s gaze, smirking because Cas’s ruddy face unsubtly gives away the tent pitched in his pants. He winks at Cas, running a damp hand through dark blond locks.

“Mr. Bexler!” Eve motions him towards a small, glass table, “Over here!”

Cas shuffles over, sitting with great care. Popping the button of his jacket to hide his chubby. “I – uh… didn’t know you had company.”

“Who? Cole?” Eve laughs, staring at Cole with hunger in her eyes. She licks her lips, red paint undisturbed. “He’s not company – he’s my gardener.”

“Right…” Cas casts aside his doubt and produces a notepad and pen, “Anyway, I think we should probably start so you can get back to your children, dinner, and… _gardener_.”

“I must say, before we begin, I didn’t think there was still any interest in my husband,” she says, “There wasn’t much that was said about him after he was… displaced from his company, and the circles I ran in stopped mentioning him altogether – at least when I was in their presence.”

He taps at his pad. “Exactly. He went from a great public figure, tripling his net worth and making appearances at posh events, and then poof! Dick Roman disappears. No mention of him at all, not even a statement about how he will clamber his way back onto the top after this minor setback.”

Eve snickers behind her cigarette, “Well if you were there when he did fall, you’d understand how tall a climb that was.”

“You’re right, I wasn’t,” Cas continues, “but you were. And I’m sure that the angle you can provide will better contextualize the story and – ultimately – decide how the world will view Dick Roman.”

She nods, carelessly knocking ash onto the ground. Cas waits while Eve digests the information, scribbling nonsensical shorthand onto his notepad. Eve barks with laughter, startling him. Wiping the sheen from her forehead she leans her elbow on the table. “I don’t think the ramblings of a disgruntled ex-wife will make any change, especially since I’m still living in his house – still use his last _name_.”

“Crazier things have happened,” Cas says, “Now… who was Dick Roman? Really? The Dick that no one saw – no one but you.”

Eve turned towards her kids, avoiding his searching gaze. “Dick Roman was Dick Roman – whether in the boardroom or the bedroom. He didn’t have a secret, softer side he only shared with us, that’d be a waste of his time. And completely antithetical to who he was as a person.”

“Then his fall from grace? It wasn’t driven by sadness or… some other thing?”

“I don’t think Dick Roman even knew how to feel sad until…” She quiets, smoking the rest of her sentence away. “The man I married lost everything because of his greatest trait, his pride. He was always so proud of himself… even when there was no reason to. Was hell whenever we fought, stubborn bastard would never own up to his mistakes. But Dick would accept praise, especially if he had no part in the accomplishment.”

“One of our last fights before the divorce… I’d gotten fed up with his drinking. You’re probably well acquainted with his affair with booze, if you’re committed to this research schtick.” Cas concedes to her observation. “He always said the same thing… it’s not his fault. His mom didn’t hug him enough, and then when he was eighteen his father shipped him off to Korea for the war.”

“Well war does have a disastrous effect on the human condition,” Cas adds, “Have you _seen_ the way the boys who come back from Vietnam are?”

Eve smirks, waving her cigarette around. “Of course, I’ve chaired probably ten benefits about how we can best _support_ our veterans… guests of honors listless, lost, dead behind the eyes. If I didn’t know Dick before he was shipped off, I might have given him some leeway – some understanding. But we were engaged in the days leading up to his deployment. I knew full well he had nothing in him. Saw the dark pit where his heart was…” She pauses, shifting in her seat. Faces Cas once more. “I still loved him, though,” Eve reveals with a firm tone, “A true love. Because I knew what he really was before he…”

Cas pounces, “Before he what?”

“Usually whenever Dick gets caught up in a drunken frenzy, and the police come by for a slap on the wrist, he spends a few months at some dry retreat, going to _meetings_ and sitting with shrinks that run through the same spiel over and over. Always comes back promising he changed, how he’ll never touch the stuff again. The last place he went was suggested by his lawyer. This one had recently opened and… and it messed him up.”

“Messed him up how?”

“Well, he kept babbling about how messed up he was. Broken because of the way the world is. Only this time Dick sounded committing to fixing it – or letting someone else do it for him,” she says, “And money? Dick loved money. I was expecting a huge fight between my lawyers and him over how much I would keep in the divorce settlement, but then he splits it with no trouble because he found that money stole happiness or some other silly catchphrase they taught him.”

Cas notes this development in his pad, squinting. “So, this newfound… conscious, that he found while in recovery, that bothered you?”

“It was weird,” she argues. Eve pulls the flaps of her cover over her body, curling into herself. “I didn’t see much of him during the proceedings, but sometime after the divorce was settled, he stopped by the house while our kids were at school. Wanting to apologize for how he acted and everything he put me through, speaking with barely a trace of sorrow in his voice. And he kept smiling which… Dick never smiled. I called him on it and he said that he finally found a new way to live – a path to peace and whatever other hippie bullshit he read off a poster. But his eyes… they didn’t change. They were the same. Whatever he found; I doubt it was peace.”

An odd thought strikes Cas, Eve’s description vaguely similar in what Kelly described as the last few months living with Jack was like. “This place your ex vacationed at… would you happen to know what it is?”

“He kept saying it,” Eve sighs, “Institute for the something-or-other… I could barely think straight I was too stunned from the whole meeting. Especially when I asked if he wanted to stay and say a few words to the kids, least he could do. Oh no… Dick pat my shoulder and said he had more important things to do, and if they wanted to see him, they could join him at a meeting. Five years later, they haven’t seen each other. My youngest barely remembers what he looks like. And I… my blood boiled, even now I can feel it, remembering it…”

She bares her teeth while smoke pours from her mouth, cigarette shaking. “How dare he? More important than the brats we fucking raised – that _I_ raised _for him_. That bastard walked back out and I never saw him again, and I was left alone raising four monsters without the cover of a father that pretended he cared.” Eve glares at the pool, where two of her children now splash each other unawares of the venom.

Cas frowns, tucking away his notes. “I’m surprised you haven’t dumped them, then,” he mumbles instinctively.

Eve heard. “They’re my kids,” she asserts, “I wouldn’t let anyone else raise them… I love them.”

“Sorry,” he back pedals. Cleans up his mess. “From the way you were talking, I assumed –“

“Wrongly.” She twists her cigarette nub in a crystal ashtray. “I love my kids because they’re mine, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hate them, too.” Eve must sense the confusion emanating from his scrunched face, as she continues, “Love and hate… they’re not so different. How can you hate something if you didn’t love it first… or experience love without knowing how awful hate is? It’s like… hippies and cops. They hate each other, but I’m sure if the other were to disappear they would greatly miss them.”

Cas chuckles, a few memories flickering through like a highlight reel. “I highly doubt that.”

“Think about it,” she insists, “If all the cops suddenly joined the hippies… who else would they have to complain about? Blame on the world’s problems? They could not rise up against anyone because there was nothing to rise up against. And police? Hippies provided the perfect opportunity for them to release some of the pent-up frustration they have since, these days, firing hoses and roughing up those colored thugs is now viewed so poorly thanks to that black preacher bastard in the South.” Cas claws at his pants, knowing if he struck her now, he might never hear a clue he desperately needs.

“Anyway, if all the hippies cleaned up their act, then the police will find they have no one left to beat up.” She sighs, adjusting the ashtray. “I guess you can say the same about me and my kids or… or me and Dick. I never knew how much I could hate the man if I didn’t love him first. Hate him for leaving and being able to leave… if I did want to dump my kids, do you know what they would say about me? Nothing what they said about my poor Dick. That it was only a matter of time he left, because I’ve given him girl after girl. Who will carry on the Roman name and, more importantly, who could he play a game of catch with? As if Addison’s love of softball means nothing. He and every other man like him abandons their lives the second it gets rough, and I’m told to suck it up because it’s the life I chose. To be a mother… it’s like going to Vietnam, in a way. Those who go are heroes, remembered and celebrated. They followed orders, even if it cost them their lives. The wimps who dodge the draft… you’ve seen the homecoming they receive.”

Cas soaks up her reserved fury. Shown only through clenched teeth and a hardened stare. The wounds Dick caused, though years-old, never healed. And Cas flayed them open with his callous stumbling. He knows the window on their meeting closes faster with each passing second.

He clears his throat. “So, this Institute or whatever,” Cas prompts her, “there’s nowhere else I can get this information?”

Eve sighs, leaning away from him. “No. Well, I mean…” She taps her fingers against her lips, mouth open anticipating a cigarette that wasn’t there. “Possibly. Dick, even though he was fired and pulled that idiotic stunt… the termination he agreed to include a year’s worth of pay they would mail. However, I only received seven of those checks. When I called the company, they said he requested that the checks be sent elsewhere. Maybe to the Institute, maybe to wherever he was staying but… they should know.” Cas hears wet slaps across stone, Cole walking over. He lays a hand on Eve’s and whispers, gaze never straying from Cas. “I’m sorry,” Eve starts, grimacing, “it’s getting rather late. Tonight _is_ a school night.”

“No problem,” he stands, shaking her offered hand. “Thank you for the conversation.” Cole slips his hand in when Eve retracts, strangling his poor fingers. “Oh!”

“Drive home safely, man,” Cole says. Slaps his shoulder and then squeezes it, “Wouldn’t want an accident to damage that pretty face of yours.” He winks again, and Cas tamps the blush on his face down while meekly bidding goodbye.

Cas flees towards the kitchen, only slowing when he is sure Eve and Cole cannot see him. The suffocating vibes of anger that gripped him while in her company faded, replaced with positive energy that he struck a path that will lead Cas to his friend.

Tracy dawdles by the entryway, dusting off a burnt sienna drape that matches the sunset color of her dress. Cas detours her way, smiling. Drawn by how the light of the sunset parses through the window and highlights her features. “Hey, Tracy.”

“Mr. Bexler.” She will not face him, dusting. “Do you need anything?”

He shrugs, fiddling with the button of his jacket. “Was wondering if you might have any information on Dick Roman?” It’s an innocent question, but not the truth.

Tracy catches on quickly. “No, I never met the man,” she tells him, “I only started working here six months ago.”

“Okay… then is there something else you might want to talk –“

“Listen,” she hisses, facing him. A hand curled around his shirt, tugging him closer. “I’m not interested. And if you’re smart, you’ll vanish – _fast_. I overheard you and Eve talk. The longer you hang around the better chance the police’ll dredge up your body from the ocean. Then who would write your book… or whatever it is you’re really doing.”

Cas smiles with a weighty huff. “She’s like a dragon isn’t she?” Tracy answers with a twitch of her lips. “Okay, I understand. Thank you… and I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“That you’ve already had to spend six months here.”

He dips after that, scurrying out the door and towards his waiting car. Shucking the jacket and balling it up under his arms. While rounding his car he begins taking off his shoes, hopping, sighing in relief when bare feet meet asphalt. “Fucking torture…” Cas throws them inside and then sits, turning the ignition. A second after hearing the engine he slams on the gas pedal and kicks up dust.

Winding back through the forest of wealthy elites, Cas nearly drives onto the wrong streets. Thrown off by rows and rows of identical housing. He spots the entrance gate and he turns so sharply his tires screech and a dog yelps at his retreating figure.

Cas eases until he sidles up to the security guard’s box. He leans over, ready for the community’s tortoise, except he isn’t there. Stretching farther into the passenger side Cas sees no sign of him in the box.

Odd, but Cas doesn’t dwell. Instead he leaves sooner than expected.

A mile out from the gated community Cas notices a black speck growing larger the further he advances. Its wavy shape becomes more defined until Cas recognizes the muscle car from earlier parked off the side of the road.

Again, Cas stalls the motor, coasts on by. Drifts into the next lane since both are conveniently empty. He cannot lie and blame this vision on paranoia, it tucked safely in his trunk with the rest of his forgotten clothes. It’s the same car that he saw back in Los Angeles. And without its owner, too.

He scans the beast, an unexpected piece of the puzzle. Tries and identifies where it fits in this grand mystery. Cas checks that no cars come before stepping outside. Hurries over and tries opening the passenger side door.

It won’t budge. On his third attempt, Cas catches sight of an object resting in the passenger bucket. Deactivated, silent, but immediately recognizable when not resting on top of a car.

A police siren. Cas steps away from the car, throat so tangled he cannot speak. Giving up his words, he decides on action. Jumps through his passenger door, crawling over and hauling out.

When the beautiful car is miles behind him, Cas tears away the mental dam blocking his thoughts. All of them – covering Jack’s disappearance and the British man’s involvement – branch from a singular, accusatory tree.

Do the police know something they aren’t telling?


	3. square peg, round hole

Cas beats a rapid rhythm into his worn briefcase, fingers tapping one after the other in a wave-like patter while he waits. Interrupting only when reminded of his tightly buttoned collar and he needs to tug on it for air. He shifts in the seat, uncrossing and refolding his itchy legs. Stares at the scratch on his left shoe that follows the point at the end, squeezing his toes. At least he wore socks this time, better prepared than yesterday for his disguise.

“Excuse me?” The secretary behind the front desk looks past the rims of her glasses and at him, lips pinched tight. “Mr. Zymcka? Mr. Gaines will see you now.”

Cas stands, ends of his trench coat smoothening and brushing his knees. “Thank you, Carol,” he says in a thick, Eastern European accent. Then trudges down the path her manicured finger set out for him, over towards a small office near the back of the floor on the right. Mr. Gaines, Senior Financial Advisor, VP of Operations etched into the gold placard hung beside the door. Cas knocks twice, entering when he hears a muffled voice allowing it. “Mr. Gaines?”

“Mr. Zymcka,” Ted Gaines closes a file, smiles, and reaches for Cas’s offered hand. “Please, call me Ted.” He’s shorter than Cas expected, but the added height of his shoe’s heels might sway the contest in his favor. The perfectly coiffed gray hair, stale black suit, and pale, block square jaw unfettered with stubble, however, check off the standard boxes from what Cas knows about schleps in finance.

Cas doubles the pressure on his own shake, delighting at the wince in Ted’s face as he crushes the man’s hand. “Very well, but only if you call me Emmanuel.”

“ _Emmanuel_ ,” Ted says, “Please, sit. I hope I didn’t keep you long?”

He shrugs, “Not too long. I know you must be very busy – and the fact that you were able to ah… squeeze me in on short notice, it was good fortune smiling down on us.”

“Good fortune, what I like to hear. And what we here at Roman Ventures promise to deliver when you choose us to make your investments,” Ted opens a nearby drawer and produces a file, waving it. “Which I think is a very deliverable promise, given how beautifully your last few quarters were run.”

“Very beautifully,” Cas nods while producing his own manila envelope, fiddling with the edges. “I have talked with other firms, and they all spoke with great esteem about how, um… what’s the word – niesamowity… _amazing_ my profit margin was given our closeness to communist-controlled regions.”

“Well I like to think that shows how well you and your company can respond to challenges and have your risks overwhelmingly pay off. And while some investors might balk at getting tied up with an asset so close to the Iron Curtain, I can assure you that a little Red Scare never stopped any of us from doing our jobs.”

“Yes! No smelly communists will keep the Zymckas from running our business,” Cas slams a fist on his briefcase, “If Malenkov tries interfering with my bottom line, I will spit on his face!” He struggles maintaining a calm façade, coughing to cover up an escaping chuckle. “Apologies, talk of communism gets me all eh, how you say… fired up.”

Ted grins wide, pupils dilating in a scary way. Thinning like a predator on the hunt, ready for the moment he can tear into a defenseless creature. “Fired up is good. It’s only making me want to do business with you more. But before we get to that, why don’t you give me a little backstory on your company.”

Luckily Cas is no defenseless creature.

“It all started when my father gathered the rest of our family in our small house in village and, together, we fled from the encroaching reds as they killed their way into Germany. We settled somewhere on the West seconds as the Iron Curtain fell – it is a joke, we say, that we lost a scarf because the tail got caught on a divot as we were fleeing to… you know, it’s bicie zegara but not… beat the clock!”

Cas rattles off the bogus tale with such detail, he nearly believes having lived in the European Theater. In the back of his mind he thanks the spirits of destiny for his grandmother, who forced he and his siblings into Polish school on Thursday afternoons. Every moment he ‘forgets’ an English word, Ted Gaines latches on tighter to his hook.

Although Cas could not have bait his trap in the water without some help.

Driving back into Mar del Vista yesterday, Cas bypassed his home. Instead he navigated the sparse streets towards where the peaceful waters of his sedate community overlapped with choppy waves of darker seas. Parked across from a squat building with bars on the windows under a shady tree. Cas pocketed his keys and continued forward. Climbed the steps, blindly pressing a button from the row and waiting for a responsive buzz.

He let himself in, and after two more flights of stairs, Cas stood in front of his lawyer’s door. Too rattled from earlier Cas barged in, greeting Crowley with a nervous grin and muttered, “What’s up, man?”

Crowley spluttered, choking on his inhale. He cursed while waving at the smoky coughs bursting out of his chest. “Bloody – Castiel? What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” he shrugged, collapsing on a nearby couch. Stained enough they’ve made the single-color fabric a pattern. Second-hand, like everything in Crowley’s office. From his furniture to his information, Crowley will never pass on an offer.

It’s how they met. With his ink black suit and pasty skin, it was no shock that Fergus Crowley spent most of his time working within the shadows. Going above and beyond the duties of a real estate lawyer. One day, Crowley heard from an associate that a certain representative of California was tangled in some serious business that would affect his chances for re-election. He sent this information onto Cas along with a roll of unmarked bills requesting help. Cas had trouble saying no, too. The gig allowed Cas an intimate glimpse of the Senator, along with many others at the sex party, and with the negatives Crowley gained even more leverage. Because of his stellar product, Crowley threw in a free favor as they parted ways.

Since then Cas swung by when necessary, continually collecting on that favor.

“Right,” Crowley drawled, joint dangling limply in his grasp, “Like I haven’t heard that one…” He retook a hit, lounging on his squeaking chair. Fixing the flaps of his suit and slamming feet on the edge of his desk, stacks of paper trembling.

Cas avoided commenting, leaning on his side and pointing at the other man. “You gonna share?”

Crowley held up the joint in question, “This? Are you referring to this?” Cas nodded. He smiled while crushing the grass into his ashtray. “Now, can you please tell me why I had to waste perfectly good drugs?”

Sighing, Cas shifted on the couch. “I need some fake credentials and paperwork, and I know you can either do it or get someone to do it for you.”

“Forgery Castiel?” Crowley smirked, steepling his fingers, “What sort of investigation have you gotten involved with this time? I don’t remember you needing fakes to take photographs…”

Cas hems the issue, knowing Crowley well enough that if he were let in on the ground floor the building would end up looking how he wants. A missing kid wouldn’t ping his radar, but if Dick Roman were involved like he suspected, Cas’s neck would become very acquainted with Crowley’s vodka-stained breath. “Infiltration,” he lied, “Someone lost all their life’s savings letting this company play around with it, betting on failing horses in the the racetrack called Wall Street. Want me to weasel in and see if I can find proof that their practices are as shady as they believe.”

“The only shady thing you’ll find is the stock market itself,” Crowley said, snickering, “If they wanted to invest their money wisely it’d be better spent on taking financing classes and not on you for a pointless goose chase.”

“Hey, it pays the bills.”

Crowley relaxed, inching his chair left and right. Tinny squeaks filled the air. “So? What kind of fake forms do you need? I have a lot of templates so I can outfit you with everything you need tonight.”

“Well,” Cas stood, grinning again, “that depends. How much do I need to have been in business for a few years?”

Crowley wasted half-an-hour ripping into his plan. When he ran out of steam, he relented and began drawing together different sorts of papers while Cas explained the backstory he created – Crowley interjecting at points when Cas truly knew nothing about what he spoke. “Listen, creating a business is one of the only legitimate things I’ve done. Let me handle this part while you order us a pizza, right?”

“Pepperoni or Pepperoncini?”

“Two pies, half and half.”

Cas ate like a king, stacking slices on top of each other and stuffing them in his face. He and Crowley swept through dinner, and as the ink dried on the last of Cas’s fake form two empty boxes were scattered on the floor.

Sifting through the paperwork, Cas whistled. “This is a heavy sell… and you’re sure it will get me inside?”

“Of course not,” Crowley said, rolling another joint, “you cannot just walk in off the street, especially as you are now.” He slowly trailed his gaze down Cas’s body, scowling. “Security would be on your hippie ass as soon as you walked through the doors.”

“I wasn’t going to wear this, obviously,” Cas growled.

“At least there’s something rattling around in that head of yours…” Cas folded his arms and waited for a more helpful comment. Crowley ran his hands across his face before taking a fresh joint and lighting it. “You need an appointment, Castiel. An appointment which… I could get you, if I knew where it is you were going?”

All throughout the night Cas avoided leaking too much information. But the demon offered the right sort of deal at his crossroads. Cas relented, giving Crowley the name of the firm. In turn Crowley promised to do his best.

“I’ll call you with the date and time. And remember,” he called after Cas’s retreating figure, “This counted as your favor!”

“Sure, Crowley…” He stopped believing that threat ages ago, waving it off like smoke; retreated to his car and, ultimately, home.

Cas awoke with a start. The ringing of his phone disturbing the peaceful blankness of his dreams. He groaned, rubbing at his eye while twisting on the couch. Cas had not made it very far when he arrived. His phone kept screaming at him while he crawled out of unconsciousness, blindly groping for purchase on the handset. “Hello?” he said after finally finding it. Yawning into the receiver.

“Twelve-thirty. Don’t be late, Mr. Ted Gaines managed to squeeze you in before lunch.”

“Crowley?” The line cut off before he could thank him. He frowned at his phone, hanging it up. A glance at the clock told him it was hurriedly ticking towards ten, and Cas had to hurry.

He couldn’t be late.

Cas grabged a wrinkled white button-down from the pile and ironed it while eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes. Rushing, a bit of milk drips off his spoon, falling onto the shirt. He ran the iron over the stain until the patch of fabric was smooth and dry. His lone blue suit, even more wrinkled, Cas left alone. Only spraying air freshener around it to dilute the clinging aroma of grass.

Piling what Crowley gave him into a briefcase he dug up, Cas finished by the sink. Wetting his hands and running them through his hair, slicking it all back. He turned off the faucet and paused, catching a faint reflection in the window. The face staring back at him made his skin crawl, too much like the one captured in a picture frame buried under other stuff, present burying the past. “If ol’ Ishy could see me now…”

Cas abandoned the thought along with the twitch of his fingers reaching for a joint. Instead gathering up the briefcase and trench coat in his exit. The finishing touches of his perfect disguise, fooling the casual beachgoer into thinking he dropped back in.

And fooling investors into thinking he had the funds Crowley claimed he did.

“I had no idea the market for low-cost meal options was that large over in Europe,” Ted says, pitched so far forward in his seat Cas wonders how he stays upright, “In nothing I’ve read could any expert have predicted this.”

“Well the flow of information is tiny where I live, what with how so much is kept under wraps I am not surprised the success of Zymcka’s Frozen Home Meals is not more known.” Cas squeezes the file in his lap, transitioning into the real reason for his visit. “And it applies both ways. I did not understand real power of American investment until I read article by company founder – Dick Roman.” Ted’s face shuddered briefly at the name, Cas smiling despite himself. “Is he here? I would very much like to get his signature. My wife, she will be very impressed!”

Ted pushes off of the desk, good mood deflated. He leans back against his chair with a thoughtful expression, Cas nibbling on his lip in worry. Hoping he reinforced the rope on this bridge before crossing the expansive canyon that is the topic of Dick Roman.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Zymcka… Emmanuel… Dick Roman is no longer associated with the Roman Ventures firm and related properties.” Ted pauses and shuffles the papers on his desk, all of Cas’s company in his hands. “I really hope that won’t affect your decision on doing business with us. We’ve been looking to expand, beat the Commies at their own game.”

Cas nods in a somber fashion. “I will admit it great shock… if you do not mind question, ah… why is he no longer with the company?”

“It was decided by our majority stockholders that Roman Ventures should restructure itself to be better prepared for the shifting market, and Mr. Roman was not up to the task at leading us through these changes.” A rewrite of events Cas read about in the files, heard from Eve. Ted unsurprisingly leaves out the drunken rampage, telling Cas that, “Mr. Roman agreed and decided to chart a new path for himself elsewhere.”

“A new path?” Cas asks, tilting his head to the side, “He move onto new business? How that possible when this has his name?”

“Well, actually…” Ted glances at the door, nervous. He stands and creeps towards his door, firmly shutting it. Closing the scant few inches Cas left open when he first arrived. Back facing him, Ted continued. “Dick has left the world of finance all together. It became too stressful, and he couldn’t handle the pressure.”

“Hmm… that reminds me of this woman in my old village, she had ten children and all day and night they would scream and cry out for her. Her husband… when he wasn’t at the bar, he was at work, and when not at work, at bar. Never home. One day she got out of bed in early light of morning, left the home, and hours later a few other ladies found her passed out on shore of lake, bloody rock in hand.” Cas coughs, grimacing. “I apologize if this is… too dark for business meeting. But Mr. Roman? Is he…?”

Ted spun on his heel, hands waving like crazy. “No, no – absolutely not. Actually, your concern is commendable, really. But after he was let go, he didn’t… he didn’t do anything like that. He, ah…” He walks back to his desk, leaning on it. Searches the air for what he should say next. “He lost touch with reality.”

“You mean he go crazy?” Cas frowns and fiddles with the clasp on his briefcase, “From dealing with numbers all day? Is this common occurrence with American financial system?”

“Absolutely not!” Ted slams his fist on the table, Cas jumping at the sound. “The job didn’t make him go all damn hippie, that’s completely absurd!” Sighing, he retakes his seat and pinches the bridge of his nose. Like he can pull at the thread Cas loosened with his questioning and remove all the pent-up stress. “I’m sorry, I… that was unprofessional.”

“It is okay,” Cas tells him, “what happen to Roman was… seeing horse behind plow?” Ted blinks at him. “Unnatural, weird?”

Ted chuckles, “Very much horse behind the plow.” He looks at the door again, playing with the files. “It was so weird seeing him… I knew it was going downhill – not just with his job but with his family, too. And those… those freaks saw it as an opportunity to turn his thinking inside out. Ruined his life. I mean now he’s like any of those kids you can find loitering and being burdens on all of us!”

Cas snaps, grinning. “Oh yes! I remember seeing people like you mention. The boys who look like girls with their long hair?”

“Exactly. A complete destruction of the American way of life. Entitled brats, thinking they deserve everything without working for it…”

“Sound like Communists.”

“Exactly,” Ted’s severe expression hauntingly adds depth to his recollection. “That’s their goal, in the end. Converting every decent American into an unwashed, unthinking sheep like them. It was like that movie, Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Have you ever seen it?” Cas shakes his head. “Well he looked the same, and sounded the same but… he wasn’t him, not fully. I mean I recognized the salesman voice – the one we teach new hires to aid in closing deals, soft, inviting, buttering me up for the punch, y’know? But there was no way I would buy into what he sold. The more he went on with that foreign mumbo jumbo heresy – ‘society is evil’ and ‘we make terrible choices because of we were taught to be corrupt’.” He scoffs, “All shit he learned on the path to becoming ‘a favored child' of this crazy kook. Bad enough some of our money stuffed their coffers, Dick giving them who knows how much of the money _we_ gave him just to get him out of our hairs. We sure were glad when the last check went out.”

Cas leans back in his seat, tapping at his chin. “You know, what you say strikes chord with me. On my way inside I was accosted by such a person, spouting same ridiculous things you say Dick said. Kept repeating a name of some place but I… I was so focused on our meeting I cannot remember. The word Institute, does this sound familiar to you?”

“The Institute for Conscious Repair of the Human Soul?”

“That it is, yes!” Cas crows, laughing, “Bit of mouthful, no? Like cramming oversized kielbasa in mouth.”

“I can’t believe… I thought we were done with that when Dick left.” Ted presses a button on a nearby intercom, speaking into it. “Marjorie, can you please call security and tell them to sweep the office perimeter. There might be dangerous individuals skulking about.” He rubs a fist against his eye, huffing. “I really apologize for this tangent we found ourselves on, Emmanuel.”

“Do not say sorry for this, it is not manly.” Cas beats his chest, face stern. “I find your honesty refreshing. Many men I’ve met with have tried cheap and dirty tactics to get me signed on with them. Instead you show your character and spirit, two qualities that I really admire.”

“Why thank you,” Ted says, reaching out and grabbing Cas’s hand for another shake. “I’m glad you do. I only wish we could have discussed plans on how to turn your surplus profit into working capital. As it is, I’m already late for my lunch meeting.”

“We schedule another time then.” Cas stands, gathering his things. “Secretary call secretary and set things up.”

“I like that. Do you want me to walk you out?”

“No, you say you are late. I would hate to make that worse. I can see myself out.” He winks, tightening his fist. “And if I see one of those hippies,” Cas spits, over pronouncing the ‘h’ sound. “I can take care of self. Learn very young how to do so.”

Cas walks out of Ted Gaines’s office alone, with a pop in his step; subtly pumping the fist in celebration. He had a name! It was broad, confusing, and said nothing about the organization using it, but Cas knew it would not take long for any of that to come to light. Cas tips an imaginary hat when passing the front desk, whistling some Morrison on the way down the elevator.

If Cas could control it, he would walk on clouds the rest of the way towards his car. Fate thinks differently and makes him so heavy he crashes through the clouds and onto Earth once more. She sends a messenger from reality reminding him that while he may revel in joy of what to come, presently the promised ending is chapters off.

A lone ranger leans on his car, like a baby Doberman in a too-large collar. Protecting against any deserving, weary soul who would use the block for nefarious plots such as discussing life and sharing grass. Cas whines, tugging on his tie and popping a button open for a breath of air. “Dean? If you’re here for some spiritual guidance I’m afraid I’m ill-prepared.”

Dean raises a wry brow, smirking. “I don’t know, you look prepared to me. For the first time in your life!”

“Prepared for what? A funeral?”

“Being an adult.”

Cas rolls his shoulders, stepping right into Dean’s personal space. The other man’s gaze dips briefly with an intense shudder. “If you’re done with your routine, _George Carlin_ ,” he growls, “can you please get off my car?”

Dean coughs and folds his arms over chest, scowling. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here, first?”

He grins, wobbling on his heels. Dangerously drifting close to Dean and enjoying the flush of his cheeks. “Maybe I decided to make an honest living?”

“I doubt after years ignoring my prayers God finally answered them,” Dean says.

Shrugging, Cas rolls his eyes. “Impossible things are known to happen; all you need is a little faith…”

“So that missing persons case? Have you given it up, then?”

Cas stills. Dean’s questions kick sand over the fires of Cas’s irritation. Reminds him of the operation from yesterday that had access to police files, and the muscle car accessorized for a cop. Dean shut his expressions off like he did back in the alleyway, hard stare cracking at the surface of Cas’s secrets. Could Dean be wrapped up in this tighter than a bow on a Christmas present? Possibly, but Cas cannot decide what’s under the paper. If he tore off the wrapping would it be the toy he always wanted, or a stinking pile of coal.

Discretion is key, but right now all he has is the one for his car. “I’m not allowed to discuss the private affairs of my clients – you know how it is.”

Dean scoffs, “Not even to a police officer?”

“Especially.” Cas holds his briefcase up and pushes at Dean with it. “Now, are you done harassing me or should I expect a charge?” Dean steps aside, granting Cas access. “Thank you.” Cas opens a barrier between him and the detective with his car door, tossing the briefcase inside wildly. He climbs inside and jerkily starts the engine. Before he can flick on his signal, however, Dean knocks on his window. Cas sighs and, despite thinking otherwise, rolls it down. “What?”

Dean leans into his car, grip on the roof strong enough Cas fears the metal will bend. “You might consider yourself high and mighty, above the law,” he whispers, twang thick with contempt and urgency, “but there’s a reason we traffic in the big leagues, and _you_ have a collection of pictures better suited for Playboy.”

Cas counts in his head, flexing against the steering wheel. He hisses slowly between his lips and plasters on a fake smile after, staring ahead with immeasurable force. “You’re wrong Dean. I don’t consider myself high… but man, I wish I were for _this_.” Dean’s scowl deepens. “Can you let go? As much fun dragging you through the streets would be, I’d rather not give you a reason to haul me to your den of inequity.”

“And your den of… hedonism, it’s any better?”

“It’s certainly more fun.”

Dean’s stare burns hot against his skin. He won’t react, committed to winning this battle – pointless it may be. The white flag of victory waves high when he hears a slap on his car’s roof and a muttered retreat. Cas eases out of his spot and then throws speed limit out the window. Green becomes yellow which becomes red, and it’s at this blink Cas runs twenty miles over the speed limit. Daring Dean, twisting his nipples for laughs.

No sirens or shouts follow, but that doesn’t ease his spirit. Cas, with steam burning behind his ears, knows going home now might not be wise. Instead he shoots directly towards a safehouse where Cas can lay low for the time being.

Luckily, her pad is close. Cas parks at the usual spot beside a phone booth. Dials her number and waits for an answer. First, it’s the mechanical voice on the other end demanding why he didn’t pay the fee. “It’s a collect call,” he sighs, hitting the handle against his temple when the ringing continues. By the sixth ring, the bells cut off and he hears her.

“Hello?”

“Hey Meg,” Cas croons, “it’s Clarence. You decent?”

Meg chuckles, “Not for long…”

“Perfect.” He drops the phone and races across the street. Meg, anticipating this, has the buzzer ringing him in active already. Cas throws the door open and bounds up the steps. Because of his shoes, he blunders the landing and skids hard into the wall. From across the hall he hears a snort, and after rubbing the bump on his head Cas sees her.

Framed by her doorway, Meg watches him with a finger caught between her sharp teeth. Blonde hair pinned back by simple barrettes, showcasing the sweet, heart shape of her face. She drags her other hand up the jamb, thumb dipping into where the lock clicks into place. Then Meg flees into her apartment, waiting.

Cas chases after her. Finds her spread across a white, leather sectional. Pleated skirt hem teased high up her thigh. “Meg,” he says, “you look… _groovy_.”

“And you look… _professional_ ,” Meg rakes her gaze across his overly covered body. “You working a case?” He nods. “Figures… although I have to say, this is a cute cover. What was the story? Hired accountant that was sent by the IRS? Radio ad salesman with a great pitch for a new station? Flasher that didn’t get the memo?”

Cas advances, crawling on the hardwood floor and shag carpeting. “Eastern European businessman looking to invest in the American market.”

“Really?”

He reaches the sofa, pressing a sloppy kiss at her knee. “Yes,” he says, slipping into Emmanuel’s voice.

Meg hums from deep in her chest. “You know your accents do something crazy to me, Clarence.”

“Jesteś ładna.” This kiss leaves a mark on the inside of her creamy thigh, Meg giggling and kicking a leg over his shoulder in response. Cas smiles, appreciative of her enthusiasm. He removes himself from her leg though, pulling back. “Not yet,” he tells her, “if I do this in a suit, I’ll be doing it like a man _in_ a suit. Darling, I want to fuck you like me… and I can’t do that in a _suit_.”

Her fingers curl around his collar, dragging him onto his knees. “Well stop being so distracting, and I’ll help.” She loosens his tie further. Slips it off his neck and shimmies the blue fabric up around his head. Pulls tight, turning it into a makeshift bandana. “Better,” Meg sighs, pulling stray locks out of the chokehold.

“Keep it coming, ładna rzecz.”

Meg knocks him on his ass, both laughing. She grabs a shaking ankle, “Sit still!” Throws his shoe to the wayside and then peels his sock off. Cas wiggles his toes as they’re freed while Meg repeats the process on his other foot. “Can you quit it?”

“They’re breathing, baby, that’s all.” Meg presses his legs down and uses the makeshift ramp as a slide, straddling his waist on her descent. “Done already?”

“Not even close.” She kisses him senseless, the sound of his belt being unbuckled clinking in the background. Her lips leave his, hovering over him and finishing with his belt. “I’m still having my fun.” Meg only needs one hand on his pants button, while the other helps Cas’s left arm escape both trench coat and suit jacket sleeve. His right arm comes next, and the layers become a blanket for them. She untucks his shirt, teasing the hairs over Cas’s cock. Cas, fed up with the tempo, flips Meg around. “Clarence?”

“It’s already working,” Cas growls, sliding his legs out of the pants. Meg tears at the buttons of his shirt. “I can feel the change… my power returning!” His pants and shirt are flung to the corner and Cas pauses for a moment, basking in his nudity. A hand squeezes his hanging, heavy cock, but he guides Meg away from it. “No,” he tells her, “you’ve already done so much. Let me show my… _gratitude_.”

Cas flips her skirt, wriggling down until his face rests at her covered crotch. “Still wearing bloomers?”

Meg shucks her sweater, breasts bouncing and sliding off the sides. “They said burn bras, not underwear Clarence.”

“Then when we’re done remind me to set fire to your panty collection…” Cas drags the thin cotton off her legs, bunching it in his fist and sniffing the damp section. “Ah,” he sighs, “you’re so sweet for me.”

“God that’s so gross…”

Cas grins, sinking his teeth into the fabric and flapping her underwear like a dog would. Meg’s protests drown under her laughter, Cas joining in when he flings it. “You were saying?”

“I don’t want to be saying anything,” she tells him, legs spread wide over the trench coat, “In fact, I don’t want _you_ speaking unless you’re pressed up against my clit.”

“That can definitely be arranged.”

He crouches low and softly pecks at her crotch, laving affection for the O’Keefe folds nestled in her dark bush. Tongue wriggling within those sheets and then darting out to flick the bean dangling overhead. Each instance of this forces Meg’s spine up in a curve, as though workers inside her body spotted a boat sailing nearby and began opening a bridge for its passing. Cas doubts any ships sail across the beige oceans of his trench coat but enjoys the wondrous sight of Meg’s pleasure, nonetheless.

Tongue whet after countless journeys around her vagina, Cas stops and rolls it back into his mouth. Briefly experiences the taste of Meg, eyes closed while a blissful smile stretches across his face. His whirring mind shuts off, all thoughts of missing persons and secret organizations and Dean buried under the comparable high of getting off. A forceful nudge reminds Cas that he cannot stay like that for too long.

Diving in again, Cas uses her natural lubricant to ease a finger inside. Curls it all while beating poetry into her clit with his tongue. Meg gasps, hands flying and tugging at his hair. He continues stoking the heat inside her waist, adding another finger and twisting them. His other hand, glued at her thigh, slides up and fondles a heavy breast. Cas pushes at it, nipple pinched between middle and ring finger.

“Clarence,” she breathes, “Oh, Clarence…”

“Are you close?”

“Oh, I’m there Clarence!” Meg humps his face, come spouting and splashing. Cas removes his fingers and cleans as best he can with his tongue. Only paper towels can’t sop up an oil spill.

He gives up with a tired grunt, jaw aching and sore. Cas switches tactics, instead pressing kisses up her stomach while stroking his leaky cock. Nuzzles at the space between her breasts. Sucks a loving bruise onto Meg’s skin and fully inserts himself inside. “Gah!” Immediately, her walls seize Cas’s cock; muscles rocking like squeezing the last bit of toothpaste out of the pouch.

After the initial wave of pleasure passes, Cas rides the gentler tides. Pumping, Cas braces himself above her and watches how Meg’s lashes flutter. Coming down while Cas can only ascend.

The longer his orgasm evades his grasp, Cas finds the chains on his thinking slacken. Thoughts slip free and poke at his bubbling good mood, Dean being the sharpest. His annoying face replaces Meg’s, reminding Cas of the showdown they had earlier that brought him to Meg’s place. Dean’s gaze dipping when he broke the unspoken rules of personal space, at his lips. Growling his name, his _real_ name. “Cas.”

Cas comes with a shout, nearly slamming his head into Meg’s. It hovers less than an inch from her. He pants, blinking away the detective and revealing his friend’s curious gaze. Brown eyes asking question Cas does not feel like answering yet. Rolling off her Cas collapses on the shag carpet. Fibers tickle the crack of his ass.

Meg stretches, bones cracking nearby. He feels his trench coat shift, and watches Meg slide it over her shoulders. She stands and leaves him alone. Disappears into another room.

Alone, Cas drags his hands down his cheeks and mutters, “Can’t I get a break at some point? Fucking cop ruins everything…”

A shadow falls overhead. Cas expects to see Dean again, only it’s Meg. His trench coat tied loosely like a robe, falling off her shoulders and flirting with the floor. She holds a small, silver box and shakes it. Hearing the contents, Cas’s smile brightens. “Put on some pants,” she orders him, retreating towards the kitchen.

Cas hops into them. Almost trips in his haste, catching himself on a chair. Meg sits on the other side of the table, waving away the match flame and puffing at a small joint. She hisses the smoke free and then offers her grass.

He takes a hit and drops into the seat.

Meg studies him like he was her typewriter, planning how she will make it tell the story she wants. It brings him back to when they first met over a year ago.

Cas hunkered in an outside café, listening while two men carried on with an underhanded deal that would break the newly sworn in Environmental Protection Act. While he recorded their conversation with a smartly placed microphone, Cas also took his own notes of what he could hear. Which explained why he didn’t see her until Meg appeared in the chair across from him.

She was more covered up then, too. Headscarf wrapped around brunette hair, at the time, and sunglasses. “Hi there,” Meg said, “it’s been too long, hasn’t it?”

He wracked his brain. Tried matching her looks with a number of women he enjoyed hours of free love with. Either he never had the pleasure of knowing her or could not remember what her pleasure felt like. “Really long…”

Meg folded her shades, peering at him. “Oh,” she chuckled, “my bad. I mistook you for my friend. Sorry for bothering you, mister…”

“Harris.”

“Do you have a first name, Harris?”

Cas smirked, “Clarence.”

“Clarence?” Meg frowned in disbelief, “Your name is Clarence Harris?”

“My folks were kind with everything except my name.” He closed his notepad, leaning back in his seat for a better look at her. “What should I call you?”

“My friends call me Meg, but you… I don’t know if you’re my friend, yet.”

Cas squinted. A queasy feeling in his stomach shook about, unsure about her vibes. “I thought I looked like a friend of yours.”

“Just because you look like my friend doesn’t mean you _are_ my friend…” Meg glances past him, at a table two spaces behind him. He guesses where her gaze lands. “But you might be their friends, which wouldn’t make us friends. So… do you _want_ to call me Meg?”

They were on the same beat for very different reasons. While Cas was collecting evidence for an environmentalist group that wanted to have a shot at winning a lawsuit against the very men he stalked, Meg heard about their willful ignorance from an insider source. She wanted the front page and knew this would get it. At least that’s how she explained it while the men finished their meeting in the background.

“I wish I could have made it earlier, but my sister ran late, and I couldn’t leave her kids alone.” She traipsed around the point, tapping at his hidden notes. “Heaven must have sent you, Clarence, doing all the boring work for me.”

He pocketed the notepad with a scowl. “How do I know you’re really what you say you are.”

“Wow, playing up the paranoid hippie act aren’t you?” She sighed, rolling her eyes. “Fine, you can always call my boss at the paper. He can vouch for me.”

“And leave my marks alone? Right…”

“Oh, those two are long gone.” Cas startled, whipping around in his seat, finding a waiter clearing up the crumb-covered plates. “Didn’t you know?” He fired a quick glare at her before checking on the microphone, seeing it sticking up from the pot. No doubt the tape capturing their plans still inside.

A chair screeched across the pavement, and Cas turned as Meg stood. “Where are you going?”

“I have a story I need to write,” she told him, “and since you’re not in the mood to share, I’ll just uncover my own dirt.” Meg strode off, stumbling on a chair leg. She didn't fall. Her sunglasses hit the ground with a sickening crack, Meg cursing audibly when bending to check. Cas subtly examined the fit of her jeans, snug at the waist.

She left with no other interruptions. Cas waited five minutes and then did the same. Stopped by the potted plant, collecting his microphone and recorder.

But not the tape. He clawed at the dirt, hoping it might have fallen out. It’s when he accidentally crushes a forgotten glass shard into dust he realized where his tape went.

Meg printed her story. Front page, like she knew it would. And because of the story the company that she assassinated settled with the environmental group by firing the heads responsible for breaking the law. Cas read all this in her article, including the little section thanking Clarence Harris for his help in breaking the story.

This eased his opinion of her – not because Cas thought he deserved credit. What she did made him retire that fake identity, no longer viable for use. But the group who hired him abided by their word and paid him, which was all he needed. With some cash to burn Cas let his curiosity pull him in her direction. Caught Meg outside her office and suggested they split the money.

“My boss paid me more than enough for the write up.”

“Then at least dinner, so the karmic forces that balance the universe will be appeased?”

She snickered, agreeing that dinner was the least he can do. Later on, he proved an overachiever. Ending the night with a nerve-frying orgasm that punched a hole in her bedroom wall.

They’ve met up every now and then, calling on the other if backs needed scratching. Never putting a label on what they shared. “My co-workers saw you the other day,” she mentioned one night while they lay side by side, bodies spent. “Asked if you were my boyfriend.”

“What did you say?”

“That you were my friend and nothing more.” Meg shifted onto her side, a crease between her brows. It was about this time she dyed her hair blonde, a few strands falling over her face. “You don’t mind that we’re not, right? I know we’ve never discussed it except I… I’m not really looking for that sort of thing. Never have. Those heart swoony breathless moments every girl hopes for, I’ve never seen the point to. I hope that doesn’t sour things… because I don’t think I can ever love you, but I really like you.”

Cas smiled, places a feather-light kiss against her chin. “I dig. Even if we never have sex again, I enjoy being your friend.” He did, and still does. Because Meg has a special talent understanding his scattered thoughts better than he ever could.

Which sucks sometimes. “You were some place, just then,” she says, taking back her joint.

He frowns, hunched over so his hair can somewhat shield him. “Yeah, I was on your living room floor shooting loads. You should know, you were there.”

Meg scoffs, side saddling her chair. “I meant in here,” she taps at her temple. “What were you thinking of when you were coming?” A second later, she lets slip a raspy chuckle. “You can tell me, Clarence, I won’t be offended if you were picturing someone else.”

Cas stares at her gingham tablecloth, drawing tiny figures with his finger. He could tell her about Dean, but the rapid pace of his heart would rather he discuss the case with her. Choosing the latter, Cas begins explaining all he found the past few days. Unpacks the box starting with the Institute and even airs out Jack’s disappearance at the end. Thinking about these pieces, though, undoes any of the positivity he gained when learning the name of the organization.

“Like, sure the messages are similar – but how am I supposed to be sure that wherever this Dick Roman went, Jack followed.” He tugs the tie around his head free and strangles the silk in his grip. “The dates of their disappearance are far apart, and it makes no sense why Jack fell in with this crowd. It sounded like Dick had some heavy truths he needed unpacking… but Jack? Sure, he smoked and drank. But not any more than some of the other kids his age.”

Meg plays with a barrette; fixes her hair and re-clips it. “Could there have been something else bothering him?”

The tip of her joint sags while he considers the possibility. “His old lady, Kelly, said they were getting into fights. More than usual.”

“Did she say why?”

“No, I mean… before I knew it was Jack, I assumed it was for the common reasons.” He didn’t expand on what those were. “And then when I found out it was Jack, I… I guess I must have forgotten.” Cas rolls the joint between his fingers, “You think she’s keeping something from me?”

Meg snatches the joint back, “I think it’s something you need to find out.”

“But she was so worried for him, if there was anything she knew that might help I don’t know why she would bury it?”

“Because it has to do with her.” She pins Cas’s wings, keeping him trapped for whatever truth will mess up the careful playing field he set up. “It’s like… have you ever flown in a plane before, Clarence?”

“Not my scene.”

“Well, when you’re rolling around the tarmac, waiting to fly off, the stewardesses go through this spiel they do. Ten minutes spent preparing us for the random chance our metal bucket fails and we plummet towards the Earth. Like they think that’s all we’ll need… Anyway, there are these little bags that fall from the roof of the cabin to help with breathing. And the bags – the stewardesses tell you, in the event of an emergency, to put your own bag over your face, then help your child with theirs.”

Meg leans back and blows smoke upwards, showing off the curve of her neck. “Maybe it’s like that. Whatever she’s hiding that’s more important than her son’s safety is because it’s about her. They say grass messes with your head… but self-preservation is an even fiercer drug.”

Cas sobers immediately, foot pounding the floor in a panicked rhythm. He rubs his shoulders; too aware of a chill that surrounds the room.

There’s a lot he needs to think about.

“Thanks for the fun,” Cas tells her, standing, “but bricks need hitting.” Meg follows him out of her kitchen, helping him collect his things. He slips the white button-down on and wraps the tie around his neck like a scarf. Cas turns, seeing a nude Meg with his trench coat in hand. Recoils when he brings it close by his nose. “This’ll be getting a scrub.”

“Oh, when it was on my underwear it was fine?”

Cas bunches the suit jacket with his trench, and then gathers his shoes. “That was fresh, this is stale.” They move towards the door, Cas pausing beside it. Without warning he spins and wraps Meg in a heated embrace, dipping her.

“Whoa there,” she laughs, wiping at her lips, “what was that for?”

“A little something to remember me by.”

Meg walks with him into the hall, laughing. “I thought that’s what this is for?” She points at a purpling circle under her breast, skin so tender that she hisses poking it.

Cas shakes his head, walking away. Hears her close the door when he starts down the stairs. With each step Cas feels the pressure of the case weighing heavier and heavier on his shoulders. By the time he crosses the street to his car, Cas waddles. Careful he doesn’t upset the balance and wind up like a tortoise on its back. He reaches his car, tossing his clothes through the open window.

His hand on the key, Cas almost leaves. Almost. Kept from doing so by a glinting piece of metal that catches his eye. He brushes away the clothes piled on top, eyes wide. Cas becomes Atlas, the burden nearly breaking his back.

Last thing he remembered Cas locked his briefcase after closing it. Now the clasp rests in the opposite direction.

The board restructures itself once more.


	4. like a den of lions, only more bloodthirsty

Cas collects a flower from a well-cared for bed of them, twirling its stem between his fingers. The yellow petals flutter and encourage a smile from him. Out of all the houses on her block, only she had flowers. Added a spark of originality to the otherwise cookie-cutter neighborhood. Where each house is a clone of the other, a suburban promise. Each home alike in values and pain. Protesting individuality with white-picket fences, keeping the very notion from disturbing their manicured appearances. But, always, a few weeds sneak through.

He tucks the flower behind his ear; carries on towards the front door. Cas knocks three times in quick succession. Glancing at the driveway, he sees a lone, beige sedan with its paint peeling in places. It shouldn’t be too long, then.

Kelly answers the door, tiredly smiling when she realizes who stands before her. “Mr. Novak,” she says, patting at fly-away hair; brushing flour off her hands and onto her apron. “What is it? Have you found Jack yet?”

“Not exactly… may I come inside?”

Her expression flashes, stricken with pain. She looks behind her, huffing. “I hate to admit that my home isn’t quite ready for company…”

He waves her concern off, laughing. “You’ve seen my office. I won’t judge.” Cas winks, holding out his pinkie finger, “Promise.”

Kelly ignores the gesture and steps aside for him. “You can take a seat inside the living room. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” He nods, removing his straw fedora and closing the door after him. While Kelly exits the hall on the left side, Cas turns right.

Cas hums a low note as he takes in the room. First at the plastic-covered sofa bracketed by two armchairs, also saran wrapped. He walks past the coffee table with a tasteful array of magazines and studies the furniture. Runs a finger over it and winces when he hears the squeak. There’s barely a speck of dust, a fact he comments on with a snort.

His gaze travels, next, towards the television console. A snort dies in his throat when he sees how the lace doily overhangs and clings to the screen. The mirth dies when he looks at what sits on the doily that keeps it from fully slipping off. Cas steps over the coffee table, shortening the distance between him and it.

Photos in frames balance precariously on the console’ edge. One of a younger Kelly, wedged between who Cas guesses are her parents. Both wrapped lovingly around her and smiles on all of their faces, illuminated by the natural sunlight which also reflects on the lake behind them in the background. And in the following photo, Kelly stands in front of another lake – perhaps even the same lake featured earlier. However, this time she stands alone. Laughing, pulling the curtain of her hair away from her face. Staring up with those lovey-dovey goo-goo eyes that every Hollywood starlet perfects during their tours of duty. He drops this scene without a second thought when his stare lands on the third photo.

Jack, barely out of diapers, chewing on a wooden block. Surrounded by more, spelling nonsense and slathered in drool. Cas’s face relaxes into a smile, fingers twitching at his sides. He wants a closer look but dare not disturb. Noticing the tracks in the dust, though, he wouldn’t be the first.

“He loved those things, when he was little.”

Cas turns, finding Kelly watching him from the doorway. She removed the apron, revealing a blue jersey slip of a dress, and coiffed her hair. Put together in a way she wasn’t when Cas arrived. Kelly picks up the photo and traces a finger lightly against the frame, following the lumpy outline of Jack’s baby head. “Stacking them, throwing them… eating them. At least he tried to. I always stopped him before he hurt himself but, this one he looked so cute I couldn’t help myself…” Sighing, she places it back. “Jack always had a face made for pictures.”

He nods, “Like mother, like son.”

Kelly rolls her eyes, blushing. “Now you’re being too kind,” she says, nervously wiping her hands on her skirt front. “You stopped by for a reason… about Jack?”

“Yes, about Jack. We need to talk about him,” Cas tucks his chin to his chest. “Before we get into it, I must confess I haven’t found too much that pins down a – uh… an _exact_ location.”

“What about the thing I gave you?”

“That helped… somewhat.” He tugs on the ends of his hair, mouth thinning. “But the reason I’m here is because I need more.”

“More?” Kelly asks, brow raised, “What ‘more’ do you need?”

“You said you and Jack were fighting before he left. What about?”

As he feared, Kelly shuts down. Her shoulders tense, and Cas sees the picture shake before Kelly places it back where it was. “I don’t see why that should be of any concern, it was just a fight.”

“Just a fight…” Cas chuckles lightly, nerves grating from her choice in words. He flexes his fist, biting on a knuckle briefly to reign in the caustic remark corroding his stomach. “Kelly,” he says, “I’m trying to understand what kind of state Jack was in before he ran off, and the more information that I have can give me a clearer picture. I don’t need all the details, but a few would be nice. Can you tell me at least that much?”

She rolls the request on her tongue, tasting it like bitter wine until finally swallowing it down. “Okay,” she nods, “yes, I can… I can do that.” Kelly gestures at the couch, Cas bounding over the coffee table again despite her withering glare. He shrugs an apology while she sits, carefully and uncomfortably.

Cas relaxes as best he can on the plastic-wrapped sofa. Winces when his legs squeak while spreading wide. “So,” he says, “Jack? You said things were tense?”

“He was a good boy,” Kelly starts, immediately averting her gaze from Cas’s and onto the coffee table. She wrings the hem of her skirt, “Always had been… as a baby, he never fussed. When we went out places, he never threw a tantrum, I… everyone around us remarked on how mature he was. Babysitter after babysitter telling me how delightful it was watching Jack while I was at work. Did his homework, finished his chores, playing quietly without causing the tiniest amount of stress. The hospital, they told me that by raising a child on my own I should be prepared for nights where I wanted to do nothing more than cry because I’d be so… so tired, and angry. But I’d have to swallow it up and deal with it because I’d chosen to raise him by myself, that I’d gotten myself into this mess. Except… it was never like that. I like to think that Jack knew, when he was born, what the world was going to be like for him. And in here,” she taps at her head, “the brain developed faster than the body.”

He frowns, leaning on his knees. “I’m sorry, what does this have to do with –“

“Explained why he was such a good student, too,” she continues, smiling. “Growing up he showed an aptitude for classwork… reports always came home with A’s and glowing remarks from his teachers. Volunteering his time when he could to help students who didn’t understand the material or clean up after his classmates when he could have been at recess.” The shiny memories must fade, because the beatific expression droops in sorrow. “But then high school… something changed like a – like a flip was switched. Somewhere in his junior year his grades started slipping. His involvement in extracurriculars stopped, too – Jack’s coach on the track team called me up, that was how I found out. That Jack left the team and started skipping classes, too. I thought he was only going through a phase, you know. New music, new clothes – it was around the time they let this other girl go at work, and I was tasked with picking up the slack until they found a replacement. I know that’s no excuse but… my mind was on other things and I trusted that Jack would have… would take care of himself.” She laughs, a pitiful thing. Collects a tear on her palm, “He always seemed to be his own parent, and I… I forgot. What a stupid thing to do.”

Cas reaches out, halting halfway across the divide when no words of comfort appear in his mind. He slinks back hoping she didn’t see. “Then all of this with Jack began years ago?”

“One year ago,” she admits, “While his grades were slipping and that was cause for concern, it wasn’t like he was failing. Jack had different interests, and since he wasn’t hurting himself I didn’t pry too much. He just… stopped caring about getting the highest marks. Only getting enough so he could graduate and, well that’s really when this whole thing began.”

“Graduation,” Cas says, “Yes, Jack graduated a year ago, right?”

“Almost a year,” she amends, “It won’t be a year until May rolls around and – and when that happens it will have been a year since Jack graduated… a year since he left high school and what has he to show for it? Nothing.” Kelly chokes on a sob, lamely covering it with a cough and stalling for composure.

He sees the threads of the story she’s unraveling and pulls in her stead. “You did mention his _lackluster_ plans for the future at my office,” Cas says, “about not going to college or getting a job.”

“They say you’re supposed to want better for your kids,” Kelly says, “to lead lives you couldn’t lead because the opportunities were never there. Jack had… so much potential; every day since he graduated it was another day he was squandering it. And I never used to get mad at my son but that… seeing him come in when he pleased, so relaxed while I’m still working in the _same_ job I’ve had since he was a baby. Ignore _any_ attempt to discuss plans for his future caused us to get into a row or two.” She finally looks at him, a sheen over her eyes. “We’d shout, he’d lock himself in his room and me in mine where we fumed for the rest of the night. All because I want him to have more than I did. He’s so… he’s so lucky. If Jack did go to college, nothing could stop him. He’d get through all four years uninterrupted.” Kelly squeezes her ring finger so tightly Cas worries it might turn purple.

Cas digests all she said and finds himself still hungry. “Then Jack leaving?” he asks, “That was all about college?” His question makes the skin on her ring finger start transitioning from pink to a deeper shade. “If that were so, do you think he might have just left to start his own life? To stop burdening you with looking after him? Maybe he went to college without telling you!”

“Jack wouldn’t do that,” she scowls, “We’d fight, but he knew that I would rather he be here with me than anywhere else. At least here he has food and shelter guaranteed…”

“Maybe he set up his own pad while you weren’t looking. I did split my fees with him whenever he shadowed me on a case.”

“He’s told me about that. How you survive on such a _meager_ and _infrequent_ salary, I’m afraid to ask.”

Cas grins, “A lot of the time I rely on the kindness of strangers within the community.”

Kelly huffs a tired breath, wiping at her cheeks. “Jack’s said that a few times, too. At least now I know where he was getting it.”

“Don’t pin the blame all on me, that message has been in the air for far longer than I’ve known Jack.” Cas waves the digression aside with his hat, refocusing on the meat of their conversation instead of the dripping fat. “If you don’t think his actions were motivated by an economic or educational sense… are you sure there wasn’t anything else you two argued about.”

He imagines Kelly with nine fingers, given how dedicated she is to rip one off. “That was the main crux of our issues here, at home.”

Cas raises an expectant brow, a tiny ache bubbling inside his head. “Really? Nothing at all?”

“Like I said before, our conversations were mainly about his ambitions and, most times, one-sided,” she tells him, “I’ll admit there are things that I didn’t know about, every teenager keeps secrets from their parents. I know I did, and I’m sure you did with yours.”

“Yeah,” he scowls against his better judgement, “And parents know how to keep secrets from their kids, too.”

Kelly froze, hold on her ring finger slack. “What?”

“I’m just posturing,” he snarls, glaring, “y’know, about secrets. It’s not just for kids. Sometimes parents keep them from their kids, thinking they’re protecting them. Or they keep them from those who only want to help in an attempt at keeping up appearances.”

She matches his expression in an ugly showdown, thunder crashing in the dark, brown storm clouds of her eyes. “Sorry if I’m misinterpreting your _drug-induced ramblings_ , but do you believe I’m withholding information?”

“Believe? I don’t want to… but you haven’t given me proof of the contrary, either.”

“You absolute _bastard_ ,” she hisses, clawing at the arms of her chair so viciously Kelly might leave marks. “What kind of hippie paranoia are you drowning in, thinking that _I_ have anything to do with my son’s disappearance.”

“Jack wouldn’t have left without a reason.”

“Yes, and you’re supposed to be finding one –“

“No, I’m trying to find _him_ ,” he shouts, standing. “And I might have a good chance of doing that if I knew what made him want to pack it up in the first place. So if you care about your son, and him coming home… tell me whatever it is you’re too afraid to.”

Kelly’s jaw twitches in anger, body trembling with more. “I care about my son,” she says, the calmness in her tone concealing the razor sharp venom surging underneath, “I’ve told you all you need. Please leave my house before I call the cops.”

He slams his hat back onto his head, feeling a few petals from the flower tucked there earlier drop onto his shoulder. Cas rounds the coffee table, showing himself out while Kelly remains seated in the living room. As he reaches the door, Cas slows. The hurricane within him passes, then. “I won’t stop,” he says aloud, hand on the doorknob, “No matter what, I’m committed to finding Jack.”

Kelly says nothing and he doesn’t stick around for if she does. He exits in a fury, plucking what’s left of the flower in his ear and flicking the corpse onto its brethren. Stomps towards his nearby car and the backup plan he devised if Kelly hadn’t shared any pertinent information.

Cas flings open the backseat and crawls inside, cozying up for an indeterminate amount of time.

In a rare twist of fate, Cas’s preparation seems moot. Not long after he left Kelly and her ruffled feathers make an appearance. She packs into her car and leaves while Cas readied a joint, the flame of the lighter flickering, licking at the grass nub when Kelly disappears from sight. He drops the lighter with a curse; the joint, too, in his haste.

Casually, he crosses the street and retakes the path towards Kelly’s house. Except Cas doesn’t stop at the door, jumping over the flowers and onto the lawn. Hurrying to the fence that separates the front from the back. He scans the surrounding area, nothing pinging his radar. Then, with great force, he launches upwards.

His hands scrabble on the wood, searching for purchase. Finding it, Cas lifts his body higher. Throws a leg over and, with that momentum, quickly tumbles onto the ground. Biting back a groan, Cas stands and hobbles forward.

Kelly’s backyard looked plain. More grass, an old tree with an unused tire swing swaying in the breeze, and a patio set that’s been through hell. Cas passes by all of this, more interested on the back-screen door. He jimmies the handle, lips curling when it slides open. Smoother than a hit after a long day working.

Cas sneaks in and quietly shuts the door behind him. Then he continues onto his next destination.

Finding Jack’s room proved more difficult than he anticipated. Luck souring, he opened at least three other doors before Jack’s room waited on the other side. Although knowing where the bathroom was seemed useful, too, in case his bladder went rogue.

While it was empty, though, Cas would spend his time investigating. He entered Jack’s room, left of the bathroom, and paused. “This is… not what I was expecting.”

Cas scans the immaculate living space and cannot match its tidiness with the man he knew. Jack, a boy who walked around with stains on his shirt and, more than once, left even Cas’s office messier than when he arrived. Now, though, nothing is strewn about the shag carpeting and his bed looks neater than a hotel’s. He scowls, blame already placed in his mind.

Kelly told Cas she went through his stuff. “Didn’t think she would clean house…” Cas shuffles towards his desk, eyeing the brochures and pamphlets _lovingly_ spread across the surface. Then he dips towards the nearby garbage can, smirking at the rolled-up magazines stuffed inside. He grabs one, flipping open a random page and whistling a low note. “Feel sorry for the kid when he comes back.” Cas places it back, bidding Miss November’s centerfold goodbye. Searching the remaining drawers, he doesn’t find much of worth. A notebook or two with scribbled notes he took, capturing tidbits of Cas’s wisdom for later use, sit abandoned under an old yearbook. Unease strikes him, but not enough he might stop his search.

Cas moves on from the desk and to the dresser, rifling through his briefs and socks and others. While most of it looked touched since before Jack ran away, Cas expected a little more dishevelment. Even if his plans were half-formed and spontaneous, Jack should have packed a few outfits into a rucksack. Jack’s backpack hung from a hook off his closet, and the drawers were stuffed full.

So was the closet.

Every hangar had clothes on it, and Kelly must have shoveled every piece she couldn’t place nor throw out in there. _This_ is what he expected. Rolling up his sleeves, Cas dropped to his knees and began the excavation.

It was a time-consuming task; precious seconds lost by examining each artifact like it might hold secrets, and then getting distracted when instead it spurred an old memory. Like the lava lamp Jack purchased with his first cut of Cas’s pay, a shakedown on a couple goons who thought kidnapping a show dog would mean big bucks. Or a suede jacket he and Jack found in a shop on the boardwalk they got for a steal. And a rueful laugh bubbles up when his hand wraps around a familiar, bulky frame.

“I thought I’d never see this again.” Cas sits on his heels, studying the old Panavue in his hands. Marked up with nicks and bumps from years of use. He runs his thumb over the dent that saved his life, blocking a bullet that nearly tore through his heart. “How’ve you been girl?”

Photographs were an important part of his job, making up nine out of every ten cases. With that being said, sometimes he took _too many_ pictures. Which meant hours were spent turning each negative into a good enough picture, back straining and eyes hurting by the end of it. Slides were much easier. He could rush a few together, light a joint, and then pick which negatives were best for cultivating a bouquet of proof and blackmail from the comfort of his bed.

When Jack began teaming up with Cas, he pushed that job onto Jack as part of his ‘training’. Let him work in the dark room while he relaxed at his desk with some smokes and the radio on. His mastery in bringing negatives to life surpassed even his own when Cas was his age, Jack a natural with the chemicals. He knew the right mixture that highlights the guilt in their target’s eyes.

One day, though, Cas couldn’t find the little black box. It wasn’t where he left it on his desk, nor did he see it abandoned on the surrounding floor if it were knocked over. Admitting defeat early Cas figured someone finally took use of his perpetually unlocked door. Its disappearance didn’t inspire a change in attitude, although seeing it in Jack’s room Cas was glad his avoidance of locking doors wasn’t at fault.

Cas, in the midst of his review, notices the slot on the back isn’t empty. A slide rests inside, waiting. He brings the device close and peers through the appropriate hole.

Kelly smiles at him. A younger Kelly, neither a child nor the woman he knows. She stands alone in front of a lake, laughing, pulling the curtain of her hair away from her face. Staring up with those lovey-dovey goo-goo eyes that –

He’s seen this already.

It’s the same photo resting up on the mantle, of a time long ago in Kelly’s life. Cas frowns, tearing the Panavue from his face. He pulls the slide out and, like in the machine, Kelly is there. Not a trick. Flipping it over, Cas finds something scrawled on the top-right corner.

_Shasta Lake, August 14 th, 1952 – Pretty Kelly, by N. P._

“N.P.?” Cas reads. He drops both slide and Panavue into his lap, tipping his gaze towards the ceiling. “Who the hell is N.P.?” His neck bends, head reeling backwards. Cas rocks on his toes, ultimately giving up and collapsing onto his ass. Lying down, he releases the brewing storm of tension poisoning his mind with a heady sigh. Imagines it as a cloud of sweet, grass smoke and tries riding that pretend high. He cannot use the real medicine for a bevy of reasons, from it leaving a trace of his presence in the home to having left his joint in his car. That doesn’t quell the urge, only exacerbates it. Alongside the ache in his lower back.

“Bastard Time,” he grumbles, “every year it’s always another part o’me…” Briefly, a thought flits across his mind that he needn’t lie on a floor with a perfectly empty bed nearby. But this thinking unearths a buried memory that has him rushing to his feet.

_“Y’see Jack, the first two places people look are under the mattress and your panty drawer. What no one would expect, however, is…”_

Cas hopes the scales of luck were balanced on his side, grabbing his pillows and shaking them. He slams them onto the bed and gropes around. Noticing a sharp edge on the right pillow, Cas shoves his hand into the case’s mouth and crows with victory as he latches onto a familiar shape.

It’s an envelope, one which Cas rips open and dumps its contents onto the bed. More slides cascade from the hole, clattering on top of each other.

He grabs one at random, holding it towards the window and letting natural light show him the image on the screen. It’s another picture involving a lake, although no one else was featured. Turning it over, Cas reads another label. Same date, same location, same photographer. N.P.

Cas blindly scoops up more. The next scene has a man in it, obvious by the broad planes of his back and the tiny cut of his shorts. He floats in the air, captured in the midst of a jump into Shasta’s waters. _Pearl Diving, K.K._ Kelly Kline?

Changing tactics, Cas decides the back of these slides may expedite the process. He sits on the bed and begins nudging the ones in his hands every which way, scanning the short messages. Most of the slides he held were named in an unhelpful manner. _Trees_. _Cloudy Sky_. _Pretty Kelly’s Famous Pie, Pretty Kelly Bathing, Pretty Kelly’s Smile_. Nothing about the mysterious N.P. who took almost all of the photos in question.

Dumping those, he scrubs tiredly at his cheeks before gathering the remaining few. Thankfully, the next slide tells him more.

_The Professor and his Pretty Kelly_. He’s a much older man than Kelly was in the picture, probably a few years younger than Cas is now. Crow’s feet fully visible from the wide smile plastered on his face, cheesing for the camera. Kelly sits under his massive wing, both wet from an afternoon dip in the lake. Wrapped up in towels and each other. Her head rests under his chin, arms outstretched as she took this picture. “The professor, eh…” Cas hums under breath, “What were you going with a professor, Kelly? And better yet who the _fuck_ is he? Couldn’t’ve written his name?”

None of the other slides help him like that one. He adds those failed ones to the pile, keeping the slide with the Professor and tucking it into the ribbon of fabric tied around his fedora.

Standing, Cas deems the raid on Jack’s room over. He then starts on erasing any evidence that he was there. Fixing pillows, gathering the slides and stuffing them back inside the envelope. Resealing it, however, Cas notices an important clue that he overlooked. Kicks himself for ignoring it.

Unlike the ones he dealt with, this envelope was _addressed_. In the middle of the long, front space, Cas learned the name of Kelly’s dashing professor. Nick Pellegrino, a member of the faculty at California’s local state university given the mailing address. Not a home address, but at least it’s _something._ He debates whether or not he should take the envelope when his heart leaps in his throat.

Someone knocks on the front door. It echoes in the quiet emptiness of Kelly’s house, reaching all the way upstairs. Cas freezes, unsure what to do. When another series of knocks follow, louder than the first, he switches into a panic.

He stuffs the envelope in the pillow and leaves it. Kicks the pooling mess of Jack’s things back into the closet, Panavue included. Cas scurries out of Jack’s room and closes the door behind him.

Strategically avoiding the front door, Cas navigates the Kline household until he is at the sliding back door again. He leaps across the threshold, rushing towards the fence. Cas presses himself against it, listening to the other side.

Nothing. Peeking from behind the pickets, he sees the entryway abandoned. Further inspection shows no one waiting in the yard. Calming, Cas allows for a breath of relief before climbing over the fence. When done he readies himself by securing his hands on the wood. He lifts, flinging his leg over. Prepared for the shift in weight Cas anticipates gravity’s antics and rolls off, sticking the landing.

Someone claps from off to the side, causing his muscles to stiffen in a painful way. Cas glances at his right, a familiar figure strutting forward. Wind playing with the lapels of his oversized suit jacket.

Dean grins with maliciousness glinting off his sharp teeth. “Did anyone ever tell you, Cas,” he says, “you should’ve been in the Olympics?”

Despite the horrible optics of his current situation, Cas keeps his back straight and chin high. Ignoring the teasing blow, he crosses his arms. “What are you doing here, Dean?”

“Someone called in about a B&E over the radio,” he shrugs, circling him, “dispatch described the perp as a ratty-old hippie probably searching for valuables he could sell for his next fix.”

“Funny, I thought as a detective you were above such simple cases.”

“Well I was in the area,” Dean tells him, a perplexing comment Cas files for later. “And every now and then those big cases get too stressful, roughing up a hippie or two helps blow off some steam.” He stops in front of him, pulling back the lapels and revealing the gun holstered in its leather sleeping bag.

Cas shifts, stance widening in response at Dean’s colorful displays of aggression. He’s unused to such blatant tactics from _this_ detective, but not without his wits entirely. “I doubt breaking and entering require unseemly levels of aggression.”

“It does if you were resisting arrest.”

His hands shoot up, Cas dropping onto his knees in front of Dean. With the meager distance between them, the position looks almost suggestive. Cas knows it’s not only he who thinks this as fire burns across Dean’s face uncontested. Dean flies back, scowling, buttoning up his jacket and pulling on the flaps. “Well,” Cas asks, grinning now, “does it look like I’m resisting, _officer_?”

Dean meets his stare, pupils receding into their regular shape. “Whatever,” he sighs, brandishing handcuffs, “that part doesn’t matter. At least I finally have a reason to haul your sorry ass to the precinct.”

“Y’know if you wanted to have me over, you could’ve just asked,” Cas says, sarcasm deflecting from the pain as Dean locks the cuffs tight over his wrists.

He drags Cas off the lawn and pushes him away from Kelly’s house, reading him his Miranda rights all the while. Cas tunes Dean out, instead studying the area around them. A woman from the next house dashes the curtains across the window, too slow for Cas’s gaze. He saw her, and bets she was the one who called the police. Then he briefly glances at his car, saddened he will be abandoning her in such a square town.

Dean squeezes his arm and throws him through a turn. Stunned, his senses take a second to readjust. When his vision steadies, a seed of dread that was planted in his stomach days ago sprouts into a venomous flower.

The black, muscle car waits for him. The same car he saw by the abandoned-not-abandoned building, and on the road from Eve Roman’s mansion. Dean digs a key from his pocket and unlocks the door with it, confirming the worst of Cas’s suspicions.

Cas swallows around the lump in his throat, “This is your car?”

“Yeah,” he answers, voice gruff and cautions. A lone brow arches at him, Dean unmoving by the handle. “Why? You got a problem with her?”

He silences the impertinent questions simmering underneath, instead letting his cool tongue answer. “No. Didn’t expect a square like you to own a beauty like her, though.”

“Shut the fuck up Novak. Just get in.”

Cas does, letting Dean shut the door softly after him. Delicate, with more care than he has shown the entirety of their conversation. He lets this act of kindness slip through the cracks, mind too wracked with the tangled web of the past few days, and how Dean has jumped into the fray and messed it up further.

It’s a long, quiet ride to the police station.

* * *

Cas fiddles with the brim of his hat, leg bouncing while he sits in the clinical interrogation room. Focuses on the tight weaving of the headpiece instead of peering at hidden faces behind the two-way mirror or banging an obnoxious rhythm on the stainless-steel table. Although his control falters. Rebellious urges rising from within, whispering tempting dares in his ear.

The door opens, and suddenly the voices louden; target coming into sight. Dean barely glances up from his notepad, an air of stiff boredom hanging around him. Expression masked with the same coating that hides the pigs behind their special fencing. “Cas-tee-el Novak…” Dean drawls, finally deigning Cas with his attention, “Your parents knew you’d end up a hippie freak and helped the process along or did you come up with this name after a bad trip?”

Scoffing, Cas slumps in his seat. “Neither. I was named after an _angel_ , though I’m _loathe_ to admit it.”

“An angel?” Dean snickers, lips curling in a smirk. “You are _far_ from that.”

“I’m not sure about that. All the best angels are the fallen ones.” Cas fires with a vicious verbal backhand, winking. Throws Dean off his rhythm with a severe blush. “Did you really not know what my name was after years of… crossing paths?”

“Didn’t care enough to ask around. Figured Cas was short for something. Not _Castiel_ but… less strange than my other guesses.” The lame response makes pride swell in Cas’s chest, claiming victory. He readies himself for the next volley, Dean checking his notes. “We’re not here to discuss your name, though.”

“I would hope so, could have easily done that without all the hassle of taking my fingerprints and snapping a few bad pictures of me…”

Dean levels a heavy stare at Castiel, mirth dying in his eyes. “What were you doing at the Kline residence?”

“Is that where I was?” Cas asks, tone hollow and airy, “I thought that was my pad… it makes sense though, when the key wouldn’t unlock the door. Damn reefer – messes with your head, you know.”

“I know.” Dean tenses, flipping the notepad closed as he bites his bottom lip. “I mean I don’t know,” he continues, opening the notes again, “I’ve never smoked the stuff but… Nixon’s camp, the science of drugs, and seeing all the – we cops talk and, some of what’s in the reports…”

Cas leans across the table, resting his chin on his knuckles. Blinks innocently up at Dean while an imaginary tail curls around his midsection. “Really? You never…” He darts his gaze quickly behind Dean, cheeks straining from the wideness of his smile. “You can be honest with me, Dean. _I_ won’t judge. Unlike your little friends jerking off to this shitshow like the voyeurs they are.”

Dean slams his hands on the table, startling him. “Dammit Cas,” he hisses, meeting him halfway across the table, “Can you _not_ poke bears for five minutes?”

He sees the grassy knolls of Dean’s eyes shake with how close they are. Pulling away, Cas’s good humor deflates. “Sorry,” he says, “I’m allergic to authority, and following the rules gives me hives.”

“ _Clearly_.”

“I can show you the slip from my doctor if you doubt me.”

Pinching the space between his brows, Dean sighs. “I’d rather you tell me why you were jumping the fence over at the Kline residence.”

Cas scoffs, fixing his hat back onto his head. “I wasn’t jumping the fence.”

“I saw you, Castiel Novak, jumping over what most people know as a fence – a barrier that separates open space from enclosed spaces, usually private property – with my own two eyes.” Dean strangles his notepad, losing patience. “How is that _not_ jumping the fence?”

His argument follows a strong line of logic. Cas will never allow Dean to catch him admitting his wrongdoing, though. He still has a few tricks that will curve the straightforward arrow Dean draws. “Well yes,” he starts, “in that sense I _was_ jumping the fence. But only because I told Kelly I would do so.”

“What?”

“Kelly Kline? The woman of the house? She and I, we go way back,” he drawls, eyebrows waggling, “And I was visiting her, in the neighborhood and blah blah blah… she had to go run some errands except I had the _worst_ stomach cramps. Told her she can go while I deal with my business, and then I’ll head out on my way. Except she must have forgotten to leave a key for me, so I can lock the door after myself! I didn’t want to leave her front door all open like that.” Cas pouts, pressing a hand up against his mouth. “Someone could take advantage and break in.”

Dean scowls, “You and Ms. Kline have a… prior relationship?”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” he mocks, tapping at his chin, “the words wouldn’t capture the magic of what we had – like lightning in a bottle… but that’s not something I feel comfortable discussing while in the presence of _strangers_.”

Fifty-Love. Cas never scored this well during actual games of tennis, always missing the ball despite how many times his trainers yelled at him. His skills were better suited off the court, anyway. If this were an actual game, Dean would have thrown his racket down and busted strings in his rage.

But there are no white, chalk lines or asphalt grounds though. The ball they strike at each other does not bounce, invisible in nature. And Dean has no use for a racket here. He coolly flips a few pages in his notepad, clearing his throat. Cas watches him keenly, features frozen so Dean wouldn’t see how the quiet affected him.

“Okay,” Dean says, “so you were visiting Ms. Kline?”

“Yes, I was…” Cas’s brow arches, sensing danger though he cannot tell in what way it approaches.

Shrugging, Dean relaxes in his chair. “What did the two of you talk about? Old times? _Weather_?”

“Real boring chit-chat you’d find a waste of time –“

“Her son, Jack?”

Cas’s heart stutters, and he chokes somewhat. Dean drapes smugness artfully over his face, the expression chipping a horrid sculpture into Cas’s patience. “She has a son?”

“Oh yeah.” Dean looks at his notes, scratching his chest, “Jack Kline, nineteen, blond, blue eyes, about five-eleven… this is all listed in his missing person’s report.” He flings the notepad down, seriousness overtaking his act. “It’d be weird if Ms. Kline didn’t tell you about him, seeing as she submitted this information a little over two weeks ago with us. Single mother she is… little Jack was her whole world.”

Cas hopes the tremor in his lips isn’t visible. “Oh, Jack,” he growls, hiding shaking hands under the table, “Right… she did mention that name, quite a lot. I guess what with my stomach turning on me and the _suddenness_ of my arrest, it all slipped my mind.”

Dean nods, knuckles rapping on the table. He shifts, stretching, gaze never straying from Cas’s. “You were working on a missing person’s case, right? Last time we ran into each other.”

He struggles keeping up with the detective’s second wind, grip on his racket slipping. “Discussing my business with people who aren’t my client is against my personal code,” Cas says, “’Sides, way I remember it you told me I should hit bricks on the whole missing kid thing. Maybe I’ve taken your advice?”

“I don’t know,” Dean hums, lips pursed in an annoying way that draws Cas’s attention, forfeiting the unspoken contest. “That doesn’t seem like you. Gotta _hunch_ you’re still on the beat, sniffing around places where your nose don’t belong.”

Limits of his restraint reached, Cas abandons any pretense of obliviousness. He lowers until his chin hovers over the table, fingers serving as a barrier. Dean’s face obscured by the brim of his hat save for those damnable pillows he calls lips. “Hunch, huh? Is that the term you cops use when tailing a mark?”

Dean bristles, feathers bursting out of his pillows as his mouth flattens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

“I really meant what I said about your car,” Cas tells him, “It’s absolutely beautiful. Figured you detective types would go for something a little less _noticeable_.” He tips his hat up, smirking, “Less flashy. Terrible if you’re trying to stay under the radar…”

His face pales at Cas’s challenge, freckles visible under the harsh interrogation lighting. A tired hand drags across Dean’s face, sighing. “I really hoped you’d quit before you get too far.”

“Well, that’s on you Dean. Remember,” Cas rises, smoothing the ever-present wrinkles on his shirt. He plucks a phrase from his memory and doubles down, taking a spear to the side of this grizzly. “This world, filled with sin, is always waiting with new disappointment. Maybe you’d feel better if you… dropped out of a life where expectations were imposed on you without your consent. It sure does feel good.” While biting, Cas feels his own skin boil from the fleeting admission. Scanning the man across from him, he thinks the momentary lapse in guard went unnoticed.

Someone pounds on the door. Startles both of them from the spell they fell under, Cas remembering the audience hidden from view. He blushes and fiddles with a loose button.

Dean answers it, escapes the rather suffocating atmosphere they created. “Yes?”

His body blocks the outside, but Cas can hear the intruder. A lilting British voice croons from the other side. “Detective Winchester,” it says, “you’re relieved. We can take the interrogation over from here.”

Cas stiffens, in a cruel twist of irony, at the same time Dean does. “What?” he coughs, “What are you –“

“Don’t worry about it,” another voice pipes in, a rougher copy of his friend’s, “scoot on off and let us deal with the hippie, right?” Recognizing this speaker steals the breath from Cas’s lungs.

Dazed, lost in a spiraling pool of confusion and questions, Cas almost misses Dean’s response. He claws out of his quicksand mind before it sucks him under, catching the last bit of the brush off. “…misunderstanding. Since we can’t charge him with anything, he’s free to go.”

“What?” the first voice asks, “Can’t you pin something to him? I’m sure he’s broken some other law?”

“You had to have found at least an ounce of drugs on him,” the second voice accuses.

“Must have ditched or smoke it before we found him… hate to say it but _legally_ , he can leave if he wants.” Dean glances at Cas, surprising him with the softness in his gaze, “Is that what you want?”

Cas nods, scrabbling off this doomed ship with the offered floatation device. Standing, he strolls towards Dean and glimpses the men on the other side.

He immediately catches sight of the suit he plowed over days ago, dressed in another bland uniform of the squares and with an ever-present disgust stuck in his eye. His companion seems more agreeable, although this man’s focus never wavered from Dean. Shortest man in the room, he made up for the physical difference with an overly inflated mind. At least that’s what Cas gathers listening as he fires off a posh tirade of fancy words that fly over Cas’s head.

Migraine fast approaching, Cas interrupts before he tears through another page of a dictionary. “Listen, I was told I can leave, so…”

“No,” smaller man huffs, stomping his foot, “you can’t. Not until after you answer a few of _our_ questions!”

“On who’s authority?”

“The United States Government.”

Interesting. Cas won’t betray his piqued curiosity, instead throwing his head back with practiced ease; a stoner’s laugh hollowing out his cheeks. “Wow,” he snickers, “didn’t know Uncle Sam approved of the British Invasion…”

Dean snorts, and then hides his amusement behind some light coughing when the envoys from the capital among capitals turn their ire towards him.

“He doesn’t,” the angrier of the two growls, “We’re as American as anyone else. Probably more so.”

“Then the accents?”

“Aren’t important,” small man says, “If you don’t mind, sir, we can wrap this up in less than an hour. If you would please retake your seat and –“

“Actually… I do mind.” Cas leaves the room, knocking through the makeshift barricade the agents bodies formed in front of the doorway. He meets their challenge with a peaceful smile, no traces of worry clinging to its form. “I was told I could scram, and as an _American citizen_ , I will be exercising my rights to not have my afternoon fucked up because of regular police incompetence. I hope _you_ don’t mind?”

Cas could peel the smile off the smaller man’s face like a weathered bumper sticker. “Right, we understand completely.” He angles his face away, hidden anger exploding like a volcano when removed from Cas’s direct line of sight. The lava debris strikes at Dean, the detective pallid once more. “Winchester, maybe _you_ can answer a few questions instead? You have a choice as well… but unlike others it might have _immediate_ consequences.”

Nodding, Dean backs from the door. “I’ll be with you in a second.”

The agents leave them, taller between the two glancing a final time at Cas. Snarling, an unspoken threat communicated by the cresting wave of his barely-there upper lip. Any doubt Cas could have that he remembered him dries up like a puddle under the boiling sun.

Dean waits a beat and then snags Cas’s wrist, the scorching touch burning through any thought that didn’t include him. “Cas,” he whispers, panicked, sweat dripping off his brow, “Go. _Please_.” Then the detective flicks the visor of his armor down and returns to a more familiar version of himself. Drops Cas in favor of buttoning his jacket, leaving and slamming the door behind him.

Cas rubs his wrist, still tingling from where Dean held it. Stares at the door, wood warping in his vision while the pieces of the puzzle reconfigure themselves for the umpteenth time. Messed up by Dean’s interference. Adding another layer of complexity he was unprepared for. How far did this racket ascend if the government was involved? If he keeps digging will he meet up with the devil himself, far from his white castle? And, like a meditative chant at this point, what isn’t Dean telling him? His smooth features scrunch up in annoyance, the detective’s touch no longer affecting him.

“Fuck you,” he spits, spinning on his heel.

Exiting the precinct now sits far low on his list of priorities, regardless Dean’s wishes. Instead, Cas strides forward to a different destination that would seriously upset the detective if he knew. However, after a few miscalculated turns, Cas realizes his execution could benefit from a little help.

He finds the perfect tool by a water cooler: young, distracted, and reminiscent of an ineffective scarecrow. Cas shuffles over while the officer chugs from the tiny plastic cup in his hands. Watching him suck every last drop like a gerbil in a cage eases the worry in his stomach that his choice could prove dangerous. “Hey, excuse me,” Cas says, “can you help me?”

The cop chokes on the water, crushing the cup in his hand. As he coughs and wipes at his mouth, Cas catches the name on his badge – Fitzgerald. “Woah there, fella,” Fitzgerald starts, “sorry about that. What did you say?”

“Help?” Cas points past the officer, into the sea of beige and blue, “I’m trying to find Detective Winchester’s desk. He told me to wait there while he processes a few things, but he left without telling me where…”

Fitzgerald smiles and tosses the ruined cup into a nearby trash bin. “Sure, I know where Winchester’s desk is. What you’ll want to do is…”

His directions were quite muddled, and Cas made him repeat them twice before leaving. The delivery, however, was forgotten the further he followed the path Fitzgerald laid for him. Despite a few bumps and roadblocks in the form of fellow officers ‘accidentally’ slamming Cas into the floor, he found the bullpen and – more importantly – Dean’s desk.

“Last row, third one with the yellow mug on it…” Cas spots the sunbeam brightening an otherwise cloudy desk, Dean’s station a copy of all the others in the sequestered area without it. He navigates the tight fit, tripping over a hidden chair leg on the desk in front of Dean’s.

Catching himself on the edge of it, a few items shake and shift across the map of the detective’s space. The mug moves, a few drops of cold coffee spilling onto a page or two underneath it. A few files come undone, scattering in messy piles. And a picture frame falls on its face, Cas wincing when he sees it. Cas picks the photo up, relaxing when no sign of a crack appears. Looking past the glass casing, he scans the full photo.

Dean grimaces into the camera, mouth wrinkled with nervousness. Eyes looking like an overly weeded lawn, green frail and sickly. His arms were wrapped around the shoulders of another, a woman with fiery red hair twisted into an intricate up-do that presses itself against the side of Dean’s face. Her blood colored smile sends a shiver through Cas’s body, tongue peeking out from behind unfortunately stained teeth. Unlike Dean, her focus was lost on the tiny gemstone perched on her finger. Tiny enough that Cas must squint to see the jewelry.

“So, he’s engaged…” The statement makes his stomach flip, like caught in a bad trip. Cas blames it on the fear painting Dean’s expression. While annoyed with the man, Cas cannot control the reigns of his sympathy. It runs wild and free on the plains of his spirit.

“Hey,” a nearby voice barks, nearly causing the photo frame’s death for real. Another detective watches Cas from his desk, glaring with a ferocity he hasn’t seen since his teachers in school. “What d’you think you’re doing _freak_.”

Cas places the picture back where it was. “Sorry,” he says, glancing at the man’s nameplate, “Webb, man. I was told to wait here, for some dude Winchester?” Playing hippie won’t help him here, even a glimpse of a peace sign would raise this police dog’s hackles. Even now, teeth bared, Webb looks for any reason he could shove Cas’s face into the desk.

“Really? What for?”

“Dunno. Probably to give me my shit that he took.”

Webb scoffs, “Sorry, _man_ , but we don’t give illegal substances back after we take them.”

“No, it wasn’t any of that,” Cas shrugs, hands stuffed into his pockets. “My keys, wallet… hell, my lighter. I need my lighter. This guy up in Venice managed to engrave the outline of my cock on it, although he needed a picture and sending _that_ through the mail…”

This detective hurries up and away from Cas, “I’ll go get him, then.”

Cas smirks while Webb escapes, chuckling softly under breath. “All repressed assholes are the same…” Checking the nearby area, he finds no one else giving him attention. Very focused on their own work, an unexpected perk from striking a very raw nerve.

Unburdened by Big Brother for the time being, Cas rounded Dean’s desk and sat in his chair.

“Okay, Dean,” he says, opening the first drawer, “let’s get digging.”

It’s mostly junk, on his first try. Office supplies, blank templates, and forgotten receipts, all for for cheap, store-made pie. He abandons this and moves deeper, finding two sets of keys alongside a crumpled paper bag. Cas unfolds the origami ball carefully, only discovering its trash contents after the hard work. Sandwich paper smeared with mustard and a faded note from someone named Abby. Probably the life sentence Dean stood beside in the photo. A few more blank form templates make up the remainder of the second drawer’s contents.

Finally, Cas moves onto the last drawer. Bigger than the other two, he slowly slides it so the hinges won’t scrape the floor.

Files. Stacked together in a neat little accordion, stuffed with an innumerable amount of paperwork that has his skin crawling. He checks a nearby clock and mumbles a soft curse. If there were any important clues buried inside Cas doubts he can unearth it before Dean returns, or worse, _Webb_.

Cas rolls the seat back and forth, peering at the drawer. Chews on his lip while he thinks. He walks his fingers across each tab while debating how he should go about investigating the fastest.

Suddenly his hand dips when it reaches the end, the paper pavement stopping short. Grazing a foreign object, Cas wraps his hands around the thin object and pulls it up.

It’s a necklace, too groovy for someone like Dean. A tiny face dangles from a leather cord. Cas gently cups the face in his hand while bringing it closer. Studies the idol with keen interest, mimicking its expression. “Why were you in there?” he asks it.

No answer, as expected. He pockets the strange necklace and, feeling lucky, Cas sticks his hand back into the drawer. Searches the section again for any further oddities. While it seems like there’s nothing left, Cas keeps at it. Scraping against the sides until something bends.

Cas removes another picture, more faded and wrinkled from being without the protection given by a frame. He drags a finger across the black-and-white scene, sweeping over each face captured. Of a mother with a loving, proud smile. A small baby in her arms gazing up at her. And a slightly older boy clinging to his mother’s leg, hiding, scared of the camera.

Familiarity tickles Cas’s mind while staring at the shier son. It’s no great feat connecting the dots, but Cas does swallow a gasp when he realizes it’s of Dean.

He slips the photo back where he found it. Cas came looking for clues, and that certainly was not it. Although seeing the picture reignites his long-dead curiosity about the other man. How could a bashful, little boy turn into a steely detective? Is he still a momma’s boy? And Cas didn’t know Dean had a brother.

Shaking his head, Cas closes the drawer. He tugs on the ends of his hair while working overtime thinking where Dean might have hidden any _useful_ evidence. Leaning on the desk, he stares at the pile of papers his early fumble caused.

One, oddly enough, with a photo of Jack paperclipped to it.

Cas hisses, “Motherfucker –“ It’s not a recent headshot, Jack’s hair short and the bright shine of youth still present in his eyes. But there is no mistaking the boy in the photo as the man Cas knew. Assured, also, by the scribbled notes on the paper behind it where Jack’s name is written.

He reads through the rest of the report, a memory flicking to the front. Kelly told him she visited the police before seeking out Cas and his services, and the proof of her story rests in Cas’s hands.

“So, _Dean_ , why would you have this…” Cas sets the report down, remembering how barely an hour ago the detective dangled Jack’s status as a ploy. Goading him towards a reaction. Or, possibly, a threat. “That I might end up like…” Queasiness roils in his stomach at the thought. His fingers twitch with the need for grass.

A sigh escapes his lips while Cas tallies a few more strikes against Dean given the evidence. Thinking about it, though, only makes the urge to hurl grow. He tries a different distraction, organizing Dean’s desk. Removing any proof Cas interfered as best he could.

Cleanliness was never his best trait, so the attempts are rudimentary. One big pile becomes a group of smaller piles. Not every paper found itself matched with a folder; but those that did benefitted from having similar pages still inside that helped the process along. Like Jack’s report.

Another page, stuck halfway out the folder, called to him. Cas easily identified it as part of the report they filed for Jack. Except he ignored the new page, instead reading the tiny post-it note on the folder’s front.

_MisDs, Bottom Row_

“Gotta love post-its.” Cas pries the note from the folder and finally abandons Dean’s desk, hurriedly sneaking out and into the cavernous hallways yet again.

He has an easier go navigating this time, more confident about where the ‘box’ Dean wrote about waits. While not a huge fan of police as a concept, he finds their procedural shows compelling. Mainly because he shouts at his television screen while the propaganda tapes reel onwards, convincing most of America that cops are useful. Between insults, he gleaned a few important tidbits of information. One helped him locate Dean’s desk by _knowing_ he should have one. Now, he thinks back on where most precincts would keep their files. All shows hide those secrets in a dark dungeon, away from public view and protected by thick red tape. Cutting through that will be another problem, first he must find the stairs.

With each step down, Cas tries crafting a way he can access the necessary files without being turned away. As an ordinary citizen, he cannot do much in enemy territory. Especially dressed in his Mer La Vista best. He kicks himself for not swiping a badge off the cop from earlier, assured Fitzgerald would be none the wiser. Maybe if he found a locker room, he could play dress up. But Cas wasted enough time at Dean’s desk. All he can hope is that whoever stands guard they’re either dim enough Cas can lie and not arouse suspicion, or easily swept up in his charm. Either way, his confidence must withstand. Cas squares his shoulders, forces a smile on his face, and exits the stairwell.

Lies and charms were unnecessary when he caught sight of the man behind the counter. A memory bubbles forth from a bog he avoids whenever navigating the landscape of his mind. Of past encounters that would be better forgotten completely. Cruising late at night in a park, being approached and lead to a shadowy corner where no one would disturb them. Repeated muttering of how he could lose his job if discovered, suffocating the vibe. Fingers trembled as they tried unzipping his pants. When he finally started working him over all the nervous energy exploded, and the man burped on his dick midway through a blowjob. Cas left soon after, dick limp but unspent.

It’s the same man who tore through a hero sandwich with great ferocity. Gaze trained on the meal in his hands, he doesn’t see Cas until he reaches the desk. Even then he waits a beat, studying the mediocre lay. White skin shiny with sweat that darkens the collar of his button-down and expands from his pits. What were not sweat Cas guesses are stains from the sauce dripping out his sandwich. Cas clears his throat, startling him halfway through his next bite.

Recognition is mutual. The man – Pierce, his nameplate supplies – chokes, pounding on his chest. “Shit, what are – what are you doing here?”

Cas points at the double-doors, “I need to collect a few things.”

Pierce follows his finger, frowning. “I can’t let you back there.”

“What? Because I forgot my library card?”

“You don’t work here…” He roves his gaze over Cas, scowl deepening, “right?”

“I don’t,” he concedes, dragging his hand along the counter as he moves closer to the doors. “But that doesn’t matter. Because I’m going in there, and you can’t stop me.”

“Yes I can!” He drops his sandwich on its wrapper, leaning forward. Challenging him, “You shouldn’t even be here. How are you here?”

Cas shrugs, smirking. “Maybe if you were a little more focused you could have seen me coming… but then again, we both know how distracted you get when there are _long_ objects in your face.”

Pierce shushes him, gaze darting around the room like there were officers posted on every square of linoleum. Cas glares at the hand on his mouth, dialing up the fierceness each second Pierce keeps it there. Three beats later, it’s gone.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I’m going in there, and you’re going to let me. Understand?”

There’s still some fight left in him. “Why should I?”

He smiles, patting Pierce’s cheek. “Because I’ll put in a very good word in with your bosses about the lovely evening we shared so many weeks ago.” Cas grabs his cheek before he can talk over him, voice a deadly whisper. “They don’t have to believe me. But once the seed’s been planted… you’ll be under a microscope, pal. Smallest of missteps might send you up the river, and I doubt you can manage keeping it _straight_.”

Pierce clears his throat, wincing at him. “I’ll tell people the janitor’s in there. It’ll only give you a few minutes.”

“Perfect,” Cas leans back, saluting and blowing him a kiss, Pierce grumbling a few curses while retaking his sandwich with ruddy knuckles. Cas grins, “Thanks, Pierce.”

The records room expands far past where Cas’s vision ends, rows of boxes stacked on top of each other in dusty metal shelves. Paperwork shoved down in the precinct’s depths where they can rot unattended. Cas checks the note and begins walking, taking the path between the fourth and fifth shelves, nerves twisting about themselves as the boxes look more daunting when closer.

Even being unknowingly helpful, Dean makes Cas’s search difficult. “Couldn’t have written directions? Or be more specific?” He stops when he reaches the section for misdemeanors, only possible destination that ‘ _MisD_ ’ could describe. It’s somewhere in the middle of the room, covering at least three shelving units.

Cas reads the note again, and then drops to his knees. Crawls slowly while his gaze drifts left and right, searching for any sign of the mentioned box. Cardboard blends with cardboard, and Cas senses another migraine knocking on his temple from squinting so fiercely. Sighing, he rests on his heels.

Circling a low point, Cas sends a last-minute prayer into the universe begging for a sign. She answers with blinding speed, his eyes catching on a little smudge. It bleeds through the box’s edge and muddies the overall image, except peering closely Cas recognizes the wilting shapes of a flower’s petals.

On a past post-it note, Cas recalls reading about ‘Operation Carnation’. Cas shuffles backwards while dragging the box from its hiding spot, flipping the lid off.

It’s not treasure he expected, but the moderate number of files look promising. His fingers shudder along the edges, mind stuck deciding which Cas should read first. The choice flees, however, when Cas hears a few voices filter into the room, followed by a closing door.

“Fuck…” Acting quickly, Cas scoops a few files and fixes the box back where he found it. Then he sprints towards the last row on the left, soft leather of his sandals blissfully silent while he dashes. Noise tapers off the further he places himself from the box, hiding at the mouth near the entrance. Cas checks the nearby area and, seeing no one, slips out the exit.

Desk unattended, Cas learns why his visit was interrupted. “If he thinks I’ll blow him after this…”

He squeezes the files tightly, shoving them up his shirt for hiding. Tucked safely under his armpit Cas begins his awkward march.

Too focused on seeming normal, and failing at it, time bends around Cas. Or knowing his intent, the precinct helped him reach the lobby without interference because it could no longer tolerate Cas’s nonsense. Cas cares little for the actual reason, too glad he escapes into freedom.

His struggles continue outside the police station, however, when Cas notices a familiar van surrounded by a group of blue, starched uniforms. Cas tips the brim of his hat lower while jogging over where Andy argues with a younger fellow, fresh from the academy if Cas guesses. The fuzz of his peach barely sticking up where the cap ends.

With one phone call, Cas debated whether he should call for a lawyer or a ride. If the former, Crowley would expect payment in a fashion Cas felt uncomfortable giving. Keeping the situation close and closed, Cas opted instead for Andy. Leaving a message with Bobby at his usual hang to pass along. In hindsight, he should have told the younger man a bit more.

“Andy,” he hisses, breaking into the mix, “Let’s leave.”

“Now hold on, Cas, this fella was just about to explain _how_ smoking grass turns you into a criminal –“

“ _Andy_.”

His friend huffs, crestfallen. The expression switches instantaneously, gleeful for the assembled officers. “I hope you all consider greatly the wisdom I tried dropping on you.”

A faceless cadet scoffs, “Why not try dropping dead, freak.”

“Peace and love, brother.” Andy flips them off, sliding into the driver’s seat. Cas, waiting in the passenger’s side with disgruntlement heavying his pockets. Starting the engine, Andy looks over and notices the lines on Cas’s face. “What?”

“I asked for a ride, not a demonstration.”

“Come on, Cas. You love messing with officers!”

“Time and a place, Andy,” he says, revealing the hidden files and placing them on his lap. “Like, when I’m _not_ smuggling out classifieds.”

“Oh, shit man! Where did you –“ He quiets with a fierce look, recoiling. Coughing, Andy fixes his hands on the wheel and drives. “Sorry, man. I’ll go real slow, so we’re not obvious.”

“Thanks…” Cas counts the folders in his hands, crestfallen that he only snagged four. He glances out the window, knocking on it. “Can you make a left onto the highway?”

“Why? Aren’t we going home?”

“I need to get my car, man. She’s been alone this whole time…” Andy nods, following Cas’s directions. He gives himself a small respite from the adrenaline rushing through his veins, symptomatic after sneaking behind enemy lines. Once his spirit settles and mind clears, Cas will be better suited to go over the secrets hidden in the folders. Better able to accept some of the wicked truths about the situation, and a certain green-eyed detective.


	5. you'll have grown into a man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!!
> 
> I know I said I'd update this on Sundays, but given Supernatural coming back I've decided to switch to Thursdays lol.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the next chapter 😉

Cas studies the photo of the girl in the folder, frowning heavily as he digests the information he read. In his hands he held a missing person report from at least a year ago. Filed by adoptive parents whose daughter fled from their custody and probably were still wondering where she was, thinking the police hadn’t given up their search. When, really, the file sat buried in a records room and untouched long enough dust clung to the inner spine when he opened it.

His fingers quickly exchanged the folder for a joint, lighting the grass and breathing deeply of it. Cas lets the sweet smoke shudder past his lips, leaning on his steering wheel. Two days since he stole these files from the precinct, and only now had he worked up the nerve to open them. Reading them during a lull in his current stakeout, with no other excuses distracting him.

Distract from confronting the serious possibility that in the case of Jack’s disappearance – and the disappearances of the other teens filling these stolen files, apparently – Dean has insider knowledge. And, more disappointingly, _involvement_ with them. “What the fuck is happening?” he asks, rubbing at his eyes.

Things were easier back then, when he and Dean were younger; a distinct scent of _possibility_ filled the air, without the horrid bite of _disappointment_.

The present night sky disappears behind the grass smoke, Cas’s vision blurring while he descends into the depths of his memories once more. Of a simpler time, when policemen were just nameless faces who stomped and shouted for respect they didn’t deserve. And Cas was assured he couldn’t be swayed by a pretty face.

They first crossed paths years ago at the afterparty of a midnight murder of Cas’s client. While he laid stiff under a white blanket Cas watched the crime scene in annoyance, hole burning in his pocket where money was supposed to go. Cas wandered nearby a gathered crowd at the mouth of the alleyway and asked what happened.

“Mugging gone wrong,” a woman shrugged, “police nabbed someone off the street already.” She pointed towards a small puddle a few yards off, “See that? Took three men to stuff him in handcuffs – brute resisted the entire time.”

“Too good if you ask me,” an older man said from her side, arms folded over his chest. “Decent folks can’t walk two blocks without someone jumping up asking for money.” He casts a worried gaze in Cas’s direction, “You ain’t looking for a handout, are you?”

Cas blinked, “Me? No… but I am due for some cash.”

“As long as you’re not looking here, kid.”

Nodding, Cas hopped the yellow police tape and marched over to a cluster of officers sharing a smoke. “Hey,” he said, “fellas, do you have a moment?”

The oldest interrupted his approach, grabbing Cas’s collar and dragging him the rest of the way. “Listen, freak, now’s not the time to be preaching about peace. Get outta here before we throw you in alongside the murderer for a _long_ drive back.” He let go, taking a drag from his cheap cigarette.

Cas smoothed the lines of his tie-dyed shirt, huffing. “Not about that,” he said, “man taking a forever nap owed me money.”

“Funny, s’what the asshole who stabbed him said.”

“No,” Cas sighed, producing an envelope from his back pocket, “He was supposed to meet me here, pay me for a few pictures I took for him.”

“Well, at least that explains why a cheap suit like him would slum it in this dump this time of night,” the officer studied him, knocking a bit of ash onto Cas’s feet in bored contempt. “Don’t see what that has to do with you barging into our smoke break.”

“I want my money.”

“The money we took back from the murderer? That’s evidence.” He dropped the cigarette, crushing it with the heel of his boot, Cas flinching slightly at the motion. “Besides, any sort of agreement you two might’ve had bit it the moment he did. You should be lucky you _didn’t_ get paid, seeing how the one with all the money turned out.”

Another officer piped in, snickering. “Probably just gonna blow the money on reefer, anyway.” This sets off a chain reaction of laughter Cas ignores, accustomed with the grating noise.

“Settle down boys,” their leader called, subduing their glee. He grinned, glaring at Cas, “I’m sure the boy’s got some on him already? Should we check?”

Cas tensed, too aware of the incriminating joint waiting in his shirt pocket. If he ran, they would know he had it. And if he stood his ground… His options were bleak, and the more seconds Father Time whacked away the more sweat dripped down his neck.

The universe intervened, however, as someone in a plaid jacket ordered the posse to ‘stop harassing the local vermin’. Situation diffused, Cas allowed a moment of relief before it’s snatched by the older cop. His ass hits grime while shadows parade by in good cheer. Patting each other on the shoulders and making more jokes at his expense.

“Stupid pigs,” Cas growled, rubbing filthy hands on his jeans, “think they can do whatever they want because they’ve got a gun. I can get a gun, it’s not that difficult…”

“Probably shouldn’t say that too loud. They might come back and really arrest you.”

Startled, Cas glances up at a lone cop who remained even after his buddies left. He offered a hand, shaking it the longer Cas gaped at it instead of groping for it. The cop coughs once, an action that restarts his systems and has him accepting the help. “You,” he mumbled while standing, awkwardly blushing, “you aren’t going to arrest me for saying that, are you?”

“Me?” He laughed, a nicer sound than all the others, “No, given how they acted a little steam is justified. We can keep this between you and me.”

An olive branch with no thorns waiting? Cas felt suspicion rising in his chest, although one glimpse of the officer’s friendly demeanor and his guard slowly lowers. The further he trails his gaze over his body, more armor shucks itself from Cas’s defenses. His uniform highlights the muscles hidden underneath, but he finds his focus drawn towards the man’s face again. Living in the city for most his life, Cas never saw much of stars. The freckles dotting his skin were an adequate substitute. How did he not notice him until now? “Yeah, that should work…” Cas reads the name on his badge, brows arching. “Winchester? Were you born for this job?”

He stutters a laugh, rubbing his neck. “It’s cool, right? Everyone else thinks so but… but you can just call me Dean.”

“Okay… _Dean_.”

Dean looks behind Cas, darkness flickering across his expression. “So… you knew the victim?”

“He was my client,” Cas explained, waving the envelope again, “Paranoid bastard, thought his wife was cheating on him and hired me to get the proof. After my investigation, I found his suspicions were correct… and I was on my way here for the other half of my pay when…” No use beating a dead horse.

“Paying for pictures?” Dean asked, nose scrunched in distaste, “Like… dirty pictures?”

“Guy didn’t ask for that, only the standard package. Enough that you can get the general sense of what happened without rubbing salt in the wound.”

Dean nodded, biting his lip. Clearly thinking on what he should say. “So,” he began, pointing at Cas with his smoldering cigarette, “you’re some kind of detective, then?”

“I do a lot of freelance work, private sector shit,” Cas told him, “but… yeah, if you need to label me.”

“Why not join the force?”

Cas snorted too roughly, nostrils burning. Embarrassment crept up after his unbidden amusement when noticing the genuine curiosity on Dean’s face. “Really? You saw how they treated me a few minutes ago.”

“Well, obviously, because of how you’re dressed,” Dean said, “but it _pays_ well, alongside some perks. And the training isn’t so bad, took me a few months in the academy and I’ve been on the streets for almost a month.”

“Because that’s what has been keeping me from a life of law enforcement…”

“You also get to help people,” Dean continued, pausing briefly for a smoke. “In ways that don’t involve… _dirty photographs_.” It’s said with so much scandal infused in the word, like Dean were a schoolboy and not a grown man.

Cas rolled his eyes, scoffing. “Thanks, but I’m fine with helping people in my own way.”

“I didn’t think I could ever be a cop, but it’s actually easier than a lot of folks like to think –“

“I’m sorry,” Cas interrupted him, squinting. Head skewed off to the side, “When did this become a recruitment drive? Are you going to tell me I should sign up for the war before the draft calls my number? That maybe one day we can be partners and go all Dragnet on some motherfuckers?”

Dean blushed, a pretty sight that soothed the wrinkles on Cas’s forehead. “Sorry, I… I overstepped, didn’t I? Get a little tongue-tied around…” He clears his throat, dimples popping into view. “Your attitude reminded me of me. Well, when I was younger, I had problems with authority. But they can be pretty helpful, especially when you’re on the inside.” Cryptic then, but Cas brushed the strangeness aside instead cataloguing the way Dean’s plush lips stretched while talking.

“For you, maybe,” Cas said, “only I never grew out of my rebellious phase. If you couldn’t guess…”

He scanned Cas again, chuckling. “Clearly looks like it.”

“Officer Winchester! Stop chatting up the pussy hippie and pack it in!”

Dean dropped his cigarette, startled by the command. He looked from the older policeman, and then to Cas. “I… I have to go.”

Cas rocked on his heels, smiling. “I heard.”

“I’m sorry about your money,” Dean said, walking off, “I’ll see what I can do, if after booking or… whatever. Get home safely!”

“You too, Dean.” Cas watched him scurry towards the officer, older man cuffing Dean behind the head. He missed what words passed between them but given how forlornly and scared he appeared when meeting Cas’s stare, Cas assumes he wouldn’t have liked it.

The cops left, and the crowd dispersed, until Cas stood alone in the forgotten crime scene with garbage, stains, and an smoldering cigarette. He snuffed it out for Dean, then made his own exit.

Since that fateful day, he and Dean saw more of each other. If absence made the heart fonder, regular meetings hardened it. The years wore on Dean. Small, stolen conversations on his beat became reluctant awareness of being in each other’s presence until finally evolving into a jaded rivalry. No trace of the men they were left after what they been though, sometimes at the hands of each other.

While Cas figured the indoctrination of police brotherhood warped Dean’s views on outsiders like him, he hadn’t expected Dean to ride the slippery slope of corruption. Dirtying the shiny sheriff’s badge he seemed so proud of.

Except Cas only knew Dean in moments, a painful admittance.

Pity and confusion cannot eat up his entire evening, however. A light flickers on in the window of a nearby house, the very one Cas spent hours spying on. He peers through the darkness at the shadow of a man putting on a jacket until the scene cuts to black again. Then this dark shape steps out of the house and heads for a nearby parked convertible.

Though insanely difficult, Cas knows who starts the engine of the car. The same person who parked it there earlier after a tough day of giving lectures, greeting two toddlers playing in the yard with tired hugs. Exhausted from that morsel of affection, he made a less than admirable show at giving his wife a kiss. Barely a trace of love spoke from the action. They all retreated inside soon after while Cas cozied up in wait for a moment like this.

Where he can corner Kelly’s professor.

Cas pulls away from the curb, following at a safe distance. Keeps at least two or three cars behind Mr. Pellegrino and never loses track of the cherry red crisis mobile. Parks on the other side of the lot he stops in, watching him skulk towards a neon glow that stirs Cas’s loins thinking about what waits past the guarded doors. Promised by the flashing sign that shouts ‘Girls! Girls! Girls!’ “Very educational venue, professor,” Cas chuckles, stepping out of his own vehicle.

An unexpected turn in his evening, but not unappreciated. Especially after all the trouble he put Cas through.

Yesterday morning, while shoveling corn flakes and tuning into the morning news, Cas decided he would pursue the lead he discovered searching Jack’s room: the man in the photograph with Kelly. Figured tracking a professor would be easier than sifting through stolen files reeking of negative energy. With the weatherman in the background haranguing about the awful heat driving temperatures into the high nineties, Cas unfolded a large map of Los Angeles that spread like a rug on his floor. Walked across it until finding the faded print for California Statue University nearly crushed by his pinkie toe. Then, divining the distance between there and his apartment, Cas changed.

It worked with Mrs. Roman, and Cas suspected the journalist angle would work with this man, too. Professors love yammering on when others are forced to listen. If they didn’t, they would have chosen a different career path. No one ever doubled their wealth by teaching. Seminars, lectures, and articles, however, helped raise the comforts of living.

Dressed in a pea green suede blazer, salmon button-down, and his cleanest corduroys, Cas waltzed into the Information Center. “Hi,” he said, flashing the pale, platinum blonde behind the front desk a charming grin, “I’m looking for a professor here. A Mr. Pellegrino?”

Unmoved by his entrance, she flipped a page in her magazine. “Have you tried his office?”

“He was out,” Cas lied.

“Was he expecting you?”

“No,” he admitted, face twitching, “I called his office a few times the other day, left messages with the secretary manning the lines. Couldn’t catch a break, though, always _just_ missing each other. I figured it’d be easier if I spoke to him in person.” Cas glanced at her nametag, “See, Max, I’m a reporter who’s been given the go-ahead on my first autobiography. And I chose –“

“Yeah, I don’t care,” she interrupts, reading her magazine again. “All we do here is provide information for students and parents _of_ students. Since you’re neither, all I can tell you is where the nearest exits are, okay?”

He frowned, glaring. “Is there anyone _else_ I can speak to?”

“Like, security?”

Cas understood her message with a rapidness many of his own teachers wished he had back in school. Retreating from the building, he wiped the chalkboard and began anew. He strode the campus until a new plan formed, aided by seeing the John F. Kennedy Memorial library.

“Excuse me,” he said, catching the attention of an unattended librarian once inside, “can you point me towards the card catalog?”

She sighed, adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “Third floor, on the right past the women’s restroom.”

“Thank you, but – ah… one more thing?” Cas chuckled, rubbing at his neck, “this place is pretty big, probably a lot of books here. Within the catalog, where could I find a book by Nick Pellegrino? He’s a professor here…”

“Do you know what kind of book it is?”

“I wish I did,” he told her, wincing, “Only heard about the midterm paper last night… but that’s what happens when you opt out of attending the class.” His lame joke drags a sneer from her lips, but she helps.

“Nancy?” she asks a nearby librarian who finished checking a book out for a younger student, “Nancy? Do you know which section of the catalog the card for a book by a ‘Nick Pellegrino’ would be in?”

Nancy, younger by half-a-decade and with her crimson hair pulled tight in a bun, grabs a few books stacked behind the desk. “I’m pretty sure it’s in the cabinet we labelled ‘Law’, Dee.”

Dee points at a nearby staircase. “The cabinet labelled ‘Law’. And let this be a lesson to you, sir, about not waiting until the last minute.”

“Duly noted, Dee. Thanks!” Cas hurried away, going up the first set of stairs only because the librarians were still in view. However, he cleared the other two levels reasoning that he might learn a little more about his latest mark. At least enough for a fake conversation before he sucker-punched the professor about Lake Shasta nearly 20 years ago.

He nearly lost a finger in the beartrap-like catalog, all the cards stuffed in with barely any room to breathe. Cas retrieved what he needed, blessedly suffering no damage, and read it.

_Pellegrino, Nick L._

_A History and Evolution of Family Court Proceedings in California 1 st ed._

_California : Boris-Needleman, c. 1965_

The rest blurred in a muddled paragraph of words that made his mind fuzzy. Instead he memorized the code on the upper-left corner and abandoned the card on the floor. He already forgot which part of the drawer he pulled it from, anyway.

Hurrying over to the other side of the third floor Cas easily found the professor’s book. And, luckily, the man’s face was embossed on the back cover. Easier for his poor eyes than the tiny photo slide tucked in his pocket. Plus, the freshness of this photo allowed Cas a peek at what age did in the time between the lake and this book.

Being a black-and-white photo, grey hairs were practically invisible. There were more lines on him than when he let the sun leather his skin with Kelly. Also, a neat set of frames that weren’t present in the other picture sat on his face.

“Okay, professor,” Cas mumbled, placing the book back, “let’s see if you can teach me a few things…”

Cas still needed one last thing until they met. An opportunity only the universe could present. Exiting the library, he cleared his head and began wandering the campus again. Tuning into the youthful energy radiating inwards like an electrical plant, their hopes and dreams of the future giving him a different high than the one grass does. Although he smelled that familiar sweetness heavy in the air.

Especially in a nearby mob of gathered students, voices drifting over. Cas stopped in his tracks, listening as a scruffy man with a megaphone glued over his mouth yelled about the war overseas. Interspersed with cheers and chants from his group of enraptured listeners. It wasn’t a sizeable crowd, Cas seeing better turnouts at minor league baseball games. Unsurprising. With how long the debacle in Vietnam went on, any chance of America abandoning their campaign seemed hopeless. At least these kids were lucky. Heads buried in books; they wouldn’t be subjected to the killing fields. They’ll come out of this better than ever, hands clean and innocent.

“Dammit…” Cas strode past the protest, reminding himself why he was there in the first place.

Hours spent circling the campus, stealing some food from the cafeteria and joining in on a free meditation exercise offered on a grassy lawn, fate finally shined down on him.

A couple were sitting under a storm cloud as their discussion turned into an argument. Feigning disinterest, Cas listened while passing them. The one making a fuss, a tiny white girl with blunt bangs and a colorful shift dress, stomped in her Mary Janes while practically yelling, “Fucking Pellegrino can take his exam and shove it up his puckered asshole!”

“Woah, easy Janet,” her boyfriend said, glancing around the crowded space. He looked very skittish, tan face blanching at the prospect of being noticed. “I know he gave you that low mark, but –“

“But nothing Sonny,” Janet said, “This isn’t about the low mark. Well, it is. It’s also about _why_ he gave me a D on my paper. Motherfucker can burn in hell like the devil he is!”

Cas spun on his heel, interrupting the conversation, “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but overhear – were you talking about Professor _Nick_ Pellegrino?”

While the little lady fumed uncooperatively, Sonny answered. “Yeah, he’s one of our teachers. Do you know him?”

“Know him?” Cas laughed, “I had him years ago! Man was a genius –“

“Man’s an asshole,” Janet huffed, crossing her arms, “A narcissistic jerk who grades with a red pen wrapped around his dick.”

“Janet,” Sonny hisses, smile twitching on his face. “She doesn’t mean that –“

“Yes, I do!”

“We just got out of class with him, and he handed back our papers… and s _omeone’s_ a little miffed she didn’t score higher.”

He tried wrapping an arm around her, but she shoved him off the bench they sat on. Standing, Janet gathered up her bag. "I helped _you_ write your paper, Sonny. Hid _your_ dope so you can focus long enough. I should have gotten an ‘A’. Pellegrino gave me that ‘D’ because I rejected the first kind he offered me.” Janet hurried off, cursing, wiping at the few tears trailing across her cheeks.

Cas watched her disappear into the crowd, static bouncing around his head. Her comments pinned themselves onto the picture of Kelly and Nick taken years ago, although they remained undecipherable in that moment. He turned to Sonny, boy awestruck on the ground with a hanging jaw, and offered a hand. “Sorry about that,” Cas said, “I didn’t mean to cause a scene.”

Sonny shook his head, frowning. “No, that’s been brewing for a while… she’s been acting sort of odd since the professor asked her to stay behind one day after a late lecture let out.” He grabs for his bag, too, “I should probably go after her or she’ll be more pissed, and there goes the sex…”

He stopped the younger boy from leaving, grabbing his arm, “Actually,” he said, releasing Sonny when he glanced at Cas’s hand confusedly, “I just… the reason I stepped in when I did was I’m actually here to _surprise_ Professor Pellegrino – _Nick_. Got this huge promotion that brought me back West and I thought it would be nice to catch up and everything. Anyway, does he still teach in that – oh that one building? What was it… big, and had like these really nice seats?”

“King Hall?”

Cas grinned, snapping, “That’s the one!”

“Yeah, he still holds his classes there,” Sonny told him, “although he probably already beat it by now. He’ll be here tomorrow, though. Same room!” When he left again Cas let him, satisfied with the help he gave. And since Cas’s reason for being there was gone, he hit bricks, too. Not far, camping in his car with the only entertainment the stack of police files he brought that begged for attention he never gave. Sleep that night was fitful.

Rising with the sun, Cas yawned, stretched, and prepared for the day ahead. In yesterday’s clothes Cas mooched breakfast from the cafeteria, tearing off bits of bagel while choosing a spot with an unblocked view of King Hall. Cozying up under this tree within eyesight of the first level door, he waited. While feeding crumbs of his breakfast to a friendly pigeon, Cas saw him.

Glimpsed him, really. Nick already entered the building when Cas noticed, meaning his first chance came and went.

As did his second, and third, and even fourth. Cas trailed behind him the entire day, never getting a chance to ask him questions. Always with someone, talking; conversation never lapsing into a moment of awkward silence. His good mood tempered into frustration near the end, when Nick began his journey home accompanied by a waif of a girl. Oozing freshman confidence, the first few steps taken unchained from parental supervision. Like a hungry wolf Nick lapped all this sweetness up. Janet’s anger smacked Cas like a low-hanging branch, and he found the picture much clearer than earlier.

Cas waited by his car while they say goodbye, Nick’s hands hovering at her waist before switching course and brushing her arm. Murmurs a parting message that made her giggle, rooted her in the empty space next to Nick’s car until he disappears from the lot, easily obscured by the lemon eyesore of his own car behind Nick's. Driving with him home and then here.

_The Cage_.

A golden-skinned woman with pieces of fabric wrapped around her chest and waist slinks by with a tray of wings in her hands, replacing the empty section of the buffet. Slapping at hands that reach for breasts and thighs that aren’t on the menu during her retreat. Cas appreciates her assets until the kitchen door obscures them. He tugs on his cock a little from where his hand rests inside his pocket, then focuses more on why he was there.

Between the dim lighting, sweaty, gyrating bodies on stage and the sweaty, hypnotized patrons surrounding them, finding Nick seems difficult. He drifts from the door, towards the buffet. Plucks a wing from the pile and bites down, a bit of juice squirting from the meat and onto his shirt. Sighing, he licks the sauce off his thumb and wipes at the drying stain. “There goes another one…”

Finishing the snack, Cas drops the bones in a nearby bin when he sees him.

Nick waves a dollar up by one of the caged go-go dancers, other hand clutching the bars like a man possessed. His grin over pronounces the wrinkles on his face, increasing the ‘creepy grandpa’ vibe he wears like a badge of honor. A man at Nick’s right leaves, allowing Cas to take his seat.

He enjoys the show somewhat, the darker-skinned woman in a cheap angel get-up prancing about the finite space. Crushing unlucky fingers under her platform heels if they reach in too far. She slips the dollar bill from Nick’s grasp into her thong’s waistband alongside other bills fluttering.

“This must be one of the best jobs ever,” Cas starts loudly, disrupting Nick’s focus, “I mean, you show up. Get a little exercise, lots of attention, and rake in all this sweet dough…”

He hums, barely looking at him. “Never thought about it like that.”

Cas nods, chuckling, “I’ll bet. You probably just come here to watch. Me? Nothing good was on at home, and I didn’t have anyone waiting up for me who can do what they’re doing.” Their dancer grips the top of the cage and summersaults, landing with a fierce rattle that shakes a few misplaced bills onto the floor and earns ear-splitting applause even over the loud background music. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“No one waiting for you at home?” Cas glances at his hand, noting the thin line where a ring should be. Nick ignores him, hiding his hands under his legs with a dour expression shadowing his face. “Oh, raw nerve?” he asks, feigning an apologetic tone, “You have no one? …Or there’s someone, and they don’t know you’re here?”

“Listen,” Nick snaps, “If you wanted a chat there’s a bar down the street where I’m sure there are many drunks who will happily entertain you –“

“But what if I wanted a fuck? Then I’m in the right place,” he sneers, brow raised, “Or should I save my prowling for when I’m on college campuses? What do you think… _professor_?”

Nick pales, visibly shaken by the blow. “I don’t… why would you…” Pursing his lips, he removes himself from the coals Cas stoked under his chair. Flees, but not too far. Cas watches him grab a wad of cash from out his pocket and flash it towards a girl serving two cold beers. Drags her away, tray still in hand, to a more secluded section of the venue.

Cas picks up two discarded tens and offers one up, waiting until the caged woman takes her money before leaving. He heads in the direction of swinging beaded curtains.

A bored attendant waits past said curtain, stationed behind a podium. Kitted with a velour vest and hair so slicked back a few strands were plastered against her forehead, she stares at Cas. “No dancer, no room.”

“The dancer I’m looking for is in one of these rooms,” Cas explains, “my friend went ahead with her while I was on the john. Old, balding in the back, patchy shadows on the chin and a serious set to his brow? You see him come through.”

“Someone like that did take a room, yeah. But he said no disturbances.”

“He’s a real good friend,” Cas slips the other ten across the podium, “Knows I don’t want to be interrupted.”

Nodding, the attendant jerked a thumb to the left, “He’s in the third room down with Sprinkles. Doors locked, but if you press the center of the knob it should open – trade secret.”

“Beautiful. Thanks, chicky.”

Savoring the click of his boots on the tiled hallway, a sound often unheard in his daily existence, Cas strolls where the attendant directed. He tries the knob, finding it immobile. After applying the little trick, it readily appeases his demands.

“Excuse me,” Nick shouts from the bed, shirt rucked open, Sprinkles straddling him, “I thought I said no inter…” He trails off, their gazes locked. “You.”

“You ran away so fast we barely finished our conversation,” Cas says, walking in. Cas whistles at the spacious backroom: wobbling waterbed, red lighting, and mirror strategically placed above. Looking at his reflection, Cas messes with his hair. “Although I understand if you’d rather have this conversation somewhere more private.”

“Leave.” Nick’s voice took on an intimidating gruff, which would work if Cas didn’t know his bite was all bark. Plus, he could barely move while the undressed woman sat frozen on his withered dick.

Cas looks to Sprinkles, shrugging. “Did he mean me or you?”

“I, uh… I think he meant you?” she asks, chuckling.

“Really?” he hums, scratching his chin, “I thought it was you. You know what? To be safe, why don’t you scram, huh? Call it quits early and tell your father you love him, because despite what you may think he really does. Love you, that is.” That sends her running from the room, clothes tucked underarm and tits bouncing. Cursing up a storm. He faces Nick again after closing and locking the door after her, the man’s glare sizzling with each second, “Could you tell I was bluffing about that last bit? Didn’t think the stereotype would work but six-of-one, am I right?”

Nick stuffs his manhood back in his underwear, shifting. “I don’t know who you think you are or-or what gives you the right to come barging in here –“

“Oh save it,” Cas knocks Nick onto the bed, crawling and taking the space Sprinkles had. Squats over the professor, trapping him. “I don’t want to hear your whining, what I want to hear are some answers.”

Fight seeps from his tense body, Nick resigned beneath him. “Look, whatever any of those girls said, they’re making shit up. I promise, they’re only mad because I’m failing them.”

Cas scoffs, sitting on his haunches. “Not what I was here for but also not shocked how that’s the first thing you thought of.” He digs for the slide in his pocket, “I actually wanted some info about a woman you were acquainted with years ago. Does the name Kelly Kline ring any bells?” Flashing the slide close enough Nick’s eyes go cross-eyed staring at it, Cas studies him for a sign. Hearing Kelly’s name makes his Adam’s apple throb with a heavy swallow.

“No,” he says, “can’t say I remember her.”

“But that’s you in the picture right?” Cas squints at it, “I know the years wore thin, but you’re practically still the same –“

“Yeah, that’s me okay?” Nick struggles fitfully in Cas’s leg lock, kicking lazily. “But like I said, I don’t remember her. All the faces blur after some time.” A believable defense if Cas’s bullshit detector weren’t wildly ticking into extreme territories.

“You don’t remember her?” he asks, “Funny. She sure as hell knew you…”

“It was barely anything _worth_ remembering.”

“But enough to justify a vacation with her?” Cas laughed, pinching Nick’s nipple playfully. “Listen, _assbutt_ , you and I both have mutual interests, all right?”

“How?”

“Well we both would rather I leave and never see you again,” he tells the professor, “but I can’t do that until you cough up the truth. Otherwise, you might as well get comfy because I’m sure you paid the front desk for a _lengthy_ session.” Nick squirms but stays tightlipped. “Or,” Cas sighs, “we can forget manners and I get rough with you?”

That earns him a whimpered snarl, “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would,” Cas leans back down until their noses brush, grin highlighting his sharp teeth. “See… all this trouble I’m going through, and not I’m not even getting paid. I gotta get my kicks somewhere and, well… I doubt no one’s gonna bat an eye if they hear some screaming. Probably prepared for it.” Nick splutters, continuing his elderly act. Growing bored with the routine Cas wraps the other man’s tie around his fist. “Okay,” he growls, dragging Nick to a sitting position, “you asked for it.”

It’s when he reels the punch back that Nick breaks. Winces, turns his face, shouting, “Okay! Okay, yes I remember her.”

“That’s good,” he says, letting the tie slip from his grip. Nick hits the bed with a soft thud. “How much of her do you remember?”

“She was a student, we had some fun until she went crazy,” he tells Cas, “I tried helping but she wouldn’t take my money – or my advice. So, I washed my hands of the whole thing, and thought it would stay that way after she disappeared. But recently she’s been popping up like a bad nightmare.”

Cas frowns, vibes quaking with negativity from the ominous tone Nick speaks with. “Recently? What do you mean?”

“Well you haven’t been the first guy who showed up asking about her,” Nick scoffs, fixing his tie and rebuttoning his shirt as best he can. “A few months ago, this boy shows up on my doorstep asking about her, too. Bad timing because I was getting ready to take my wife Sarah to the movies when he popped up. Talking about her and her kid, almost ruining everything. Kicked him off my property and told him what I said to Kelly back then: didn’t want anything to do with them. Not all those years ago, and especially not now while I’ve got a good thing going.”

Glass breaks nearby, except it doesn’t. The shattering he hears is in his own head, from the secret underpinning Jack’s disappearance revealing itself. To be sure, Cas asks, “That guy… young looking? Honey blond hair, doe faced?”

“Yeah,” Nick snarls, “What? Was that your friend?”

Cas busts his nose, blood spluttering out the nostrils in an unsatisfactory trickle while the skin puffs. Shouting above Nick’s cursing, Cas says, “Yes. He was also your _son_.” His fist crackles with pain, shaking from the force of his blow. Luck deciding whether or not he fractured any of the bones there.

Nick falls into deathly silence, hand cupped around his nose slacking and falling to the side. “W-what?”

“You heard me. He’s your son. The very one you didn’t want anything to do with – that you _told_ to his _face_.” Fury boils his blood, and the lust for violence that accompanies his anger blurs his senses. Nick flickering out of focus, replaced with a more familiar man. Older, with snow white hair and smelling of dried ink. After a few deep breaths, the haze of it all fades. Cas climbs off Nick while still able. “You’re a real fuckface.”

Nick sighs, pinching his nose. “Look, I didn’t know he was…” He glosses over the word, reigniting Cas’s rage once more. “Did he send you here, then? Revenge? Get the full story?”

“No I think you made that clear,” Cas says, “my business is that he’s _missing_. That’s why I’m here.”

“Missing?” Nick garbles a few words like in the midst of an aneurysm, Cas watching the door. Knowing if he caught a glimpse of the other man he will continue swinging. Doubtful anything could tear him away before seriously endangering him. “You don’t think I had anything to do with that, do you?” Nick asks, fear warping his voice. “Because after that day I hadn’t heard anything from him, honest.”

Cas chuckles sourly, rubbing at his eye. He plucks an unlit joint from his shirt pocket and lights it, puffing on the end like crazy. “No,” he says, “you kept your word. You’re nothing but context, baby.”

He senses the hand hovering by his shoulder, too afraid to land. “What are you –“ Nick clears his throat, “What do you plan to do?”

“Find him, of course.”

“No, I meant… about me. You’re not going to tell my wife, right? Or the college – I can’t lose my job, now. I’m in the middle of my next book –“

“I’m going to do nothing.” Cas stands, smoke eking past his lips, “For now. But since I know who you are… you better be on your best behavior. If I catch wind of you getting into familiar antics, then your baggage gets spread across campus.” He almost leaves, pausing as he remembers another grain of salt he can toss in. “Oh, and one more thing... give that Janet girl the ‘A’ she fucking deserved.”

Cas departs without waiting for a response. Skin crawling, he wonders whether he should throw himself into the ocean now or wait for morning.

His plans get sidetracked, however, when he hears an untimely burst of noise that draws his attention. A clustered crowd of men drunkenly tossing dollar bills in the air with a curious ferocity seeing how the dancer grinds on the lap of another. Of a man who seems less appreciative of her talents. Hands raised above his head; he searches the room for a safe sight.

Dean and he lock eyes, all breath vacuumed out his lungs.

Their moment lasts too long and not enough. Seeing Dean, on top of the pounding bass matching the beat of his drumming heart and his body being knocked back and forth by careless revelers unknowing about what happened in the backroom; it all becomes too much for him. He suffocates in the packed building. On the edge of his vision blackening, Cas regains his senses and runs. Breaks through the doors and won’t stop until he leans against his car. Choking, gasping for air he cannot hold. It’s like he drowns under a riptide he gladly swam into, aware of the danger.

The strength of the tide, of Jack and Kelly and Dean and _carnations_ dragging him further down. Aided by long buried skeletons he thought were laid to rest, years of avoidance wrecked by a few minutes. His joint slips out his fingers and onto the pavement, Cas uncaring of his lost grass. He hears footsteps behind him.

Clumsily, he opens his car door and falls into the front seat. Starts the engine and drives out of the parking lot, sparing a brief peek at his rearview mirror where Dean’s outline fades with all the other shadows.

Whether Dean followed him there or it was the universe shooting him the middle finger, Cas will not entertain any further thoughts of the case for now. Otherwise he might fully succumb to its horrifying tides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up! Hope you liked it - let me know by dropping a kudos/comment below


	6. heard it through the grapevine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 coming fast!!
> 
> Enjoy 😁

Cas wakes with a heavy pressure on his bladder, from both its contents and the leg thrown across his abdomen. He slowly blinks into awareness, yawning. Extracts himself from the tentacled arms of his latest partner, name lost in the fog of early morning. Or late afternoon, as his clock shows. Shuffling towards the adjoining bathroom, Cas immediately relieves himself once the toilet is in sight. Cas finishes by shaking the last few droplets free and then enters the bedroom once more. Searches through abandoned clothing and cluttered drawers for some grass, coming up empty after a long search.

He looks to his companion, studying the sharp planes of his exposed body. Dark skin highlighted beautifully in both the glow of the sun’s rays and his old, yellowed sheets. Cas nudges his shoulder, dropping gentle kisses on his neck until he stirs. “Hey there, man,” he whispers, “you awake?”

“Hmm… what time is it?”

“Not important.” Cas dances his fingers down the man’s arm, chuckling, “Hey… you got any grass?”

Rising, the man rubs at his eyes with a frown. “Grass? Man, we’d smoked all that shit.”

“We did?”

“Last night,” he continues, “Invited me over to do just that. Once we didn’t have no more of the stuff you got a little frisky.” A memory of a smile ghosts across his face, arms slipping around Cas’s shoulder. Playfully tousling his greasy hair. “Said you could put your mouth to better use than sucking on some ash.”

Cas hums, extracting himself from the other’s hold. “I need some grass.”

He doesn’t move far, hand trapped within the other’s grip. Drags him close again. “Why bother with grass right now?” he asks Cas, lips featherlight against the shell of his ear. Hand not holding his drifts close to his cock and brushes the hairs surrounding it. “Let’s pick up where we left off…”

Tempting, especially with how his teasing ends and he has a firm grip on Cas’s cock. Presses a thumb on the rapidly purpling head, length hardening. Legs twitching, he unfolds his knees and stretches them to their full length. Cas sighs, “Listen, um…” He racks his brain for a name, fishing, hoping he finds the right one. “Kelvin –“

“Calvin.”

So close. “Yeah, Calvin,” Cas says, lazily tugging on his wrist, “you don’t… you can just go –“

“I wanna do this,” Calvin shifts, blanketing Cas’s back with his body, “ _see_?” Cas understands easily, aided by the stiff dick poking him. That, coupled with the torturous drag of Calvin’s hand, murmured dirty talk, and the light migraine rattling behind his eyes convinces Cas he needs the release.

“Okay,” Cas relaxes in Calvin’s arms, dragging his own fingers through the man’s curls, “Show me.” Head tilted upwards; their lips meet in a soft exchange of breaths. Cas tastes a hint of grass and digs his tongue in to mine for more.

Calvin giggles as they part, nuzzling behind his ear. “You makin’ it very hard to focus.”

“Do you want an apology?”

“Don’t need to give me nothing, man,” Calvin squeezes his cock, grinning when Cas stutters on a moan, “relax, and let me _take_.” It’s a hard ask, dangerous thoughts circling under the waters of his mind from the past few days. Their fins breaching the surface as a reminder of what lurks below. But then Calvin pinches his nipple and coaxes a few, sweet prayers from him. Grounds him onto the shore of the present.

Cas moans when Calvin doubles his pace, biting a healthy bruise onto his neck. He claws at Calvin’s scalp while watching the beads of precome leak out of his cockhead. Calvin rolls his palm on it, gliding across Cas’s shaft now.

“You like that?” Calvin growls, lips glued to the back of his neck, “C’mon, man, I know you can do better…”

He tucks his chin against his chest, panting. “Christ,” Cas says, “I’m almost…” His orgasm quakes within, every pull from Calvin’s fist beckoning it outwards. Cas delays it with all his strength yet cannot contend when the man’s other hand rings the bell at his back door. Stunned, Cas’s orgasm rushes out and explodes in a satisfying mess, like a milky oil spill. Streaming forth, dripping onto a shirt Cas left on the floor.

Calvin leans over Cas’s shoulder while he gasps, licking the blobs that coated his knuckles. “You be tastin’ like you look, man… fine as all hell.” He grins, tongue darting forward and capturing more.

“Oh, screw it,” Cas sighs. He jumps up from the bed, Calvin faltering on his dismount. Before he can say anything, though, Cas pushes him onto his back. Then Cas drops into a crawl, hovering over Calvin’s rock-hard dick. “Buckle up, baby,” he says, swallowing the entire length in one breath.

Elbows braced on the bed, Cas’s throat massages Calvin towards completion. His second time given what Calvin already told him. Cas, unable to remember how last night went after leaving The Cage, takes pleasure in relearning how the other man unravels. From his creative choice of exclamation to the strength of his thighs, nearly strangling Cas after suggestively tickling Calvin’s balls. If the universe were willing, he might find himself catching a second wind. Thankfully he stays flaccid, even as Calvin shoots without warning into his mouth. Cas swallows every last drop.

He pops off his dick, licking at droplets painting his lips. “Hmm,” he says, “the breakfast of _champions_.”

Calvin bares his neck with carefree laughter, slapping a hand over his eyes while lost in his fit. Cas rises slowly, head clearer than when he woke up. Stepping away from the other man, Cas picks an outfit from the assortment spread throughout the room. Pulls on some grey linen shorts and fastens only two of the buttons on his shirt, showcasing his tanned chest.

“Hey,” Calvin calls from the bed, frowning, “where you going?”

Cas grabs his sunglasses, putting them on. “I need some grass.”

“Still?” he asks, standing, too, “After all that?”

“Uh… yeah?” Cas ignores the pout marring his pretty face, closing the distance between them and placing a warm hand on his lower back. “Listen, this was groovy and all, but sometimes there’s an itch that can only be scratched by good ol’ Mary Jane, dig?”

He looks unconvinced, so Cas tugs him the rest of the way until they’re flush against one another. Kisses him with bruising force and lets Calvin’s beard scrape at his palm.

Breaking the embrace, they stay in each other’s orbit. Foreheads touching, Cas wallows in the silence for a moment. And then, “I barely got food in my fridge and there’s no hot water. Don’t have to go home but you can’t squat here.”

Calvin takes the rejection horridly. Shoves Cas off, muttering, “Motherfucker…” Cas leans on a nearby wall while the other man collects his clothes – threadbare jeans he angrily hops into and a tight t-shirt with holes along the collar. Boots in hand and jacket on his arm, Calvin spares Cas any further theatrics by leaving. Front door slamming a small comfort.

Alone, Cas strolls into the larger living space. He opens his as-marketed refrigerator and grabs the carton of juice inside, checking the date. Deeming it safe, he chugs the remainder of its contents and slams it on the counter. The satisfying sound of empty cardboard hitting a hard surface doesn’t echo, though, interrupted by an obstacle.

Cas slides the carton to the left and sees the amulet in all its negative energy. Unlocked by the blow, it twists around the bright, hazy edges that come from morning sex.

He grabs its leather cord in his fist, letting the carved metal face dangle at eye-level. Rubs one tiny horn with the pads of his fingers, frown deepening while the totem dances. Its fascinating oddness wore off since he nabbed the amulet. Regret camped out comfortably in his chest. Cas pinches his brows, “Why did I grab this creepy thing?”

The more he focuses on the amulet, the more he’s reminded of its owner. One of the last people he wants on his mind. He places it back on the counter, abandoning it and thoughts of a freckled detective again. Walks towards the door with serious intent. Freezing only because he feels the amulet’s blank stare pierce his side.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…”

Cas bears his conquest sadly, carrying this tiny albatross around his neck. Decision made he quickly leaves his apartment and crosses the short distance to Andy’s.

Like Cas, Andy leaves his door unlocked. This morning it’s not only unlocked but also slightly ajar. Knocking a formality at that point, Cas pokes his head in. Any ballooning worry deflates when he spots the younger man asleep on the floor, bent at the sofa with his legs on its cushions and a greasy pizza box in his arms. Cas rolls his eyes, “Andy!” Unsuccessful, he crosses the threshold and kicks his friend’s ass.

Andy rolls, squishing the pizza with a horrid _splat_. “I don’t know how the answers got in my bag, honest!” he says, frantically searching the room. His gaze lands on Cas; anxiety bleeding into a cool irritation. “Dude,” he says, “did you kick me?”

“Yep.”

“What for?”

“You got any grass?”

Sighing, Andy scrambles into a seated position. Legs folded over each other like a lotus, pizza box open in his lap. Though slightly ruined and cold, Andy grabs a slice and happily chews on it. “Nah, man, I smoked the last of my stash yesterday.” Cas’s disappointment must be obvious if Andy notices. His friend sprays crumbs in his rush, “Don’t worry though. I was planning on hitting up Serg’s for more. You can come with?”

His mood sours further. “Really?” he whines, “There’s nothing here?”

“Cas, man, if there were don’t you think we’d be smoking it already?”

A sound observation that weirds Cas given its source. “Still…”

Andy shoves the rest of the pizza in his mouth, standing. “Look, you can do what you want. But since you incepted the idea into my noggin’, I want a smoke.” Bits of pizza fall and decorate his path towards the front door, Cas’s wrinkles flaring at being an unfortunate witness. “You can either come and get your fix, or mope around until I get back. Which do you think’ll get you high first?”

Experience tells Cas to go with Andy, despite how every fiber in his being wishes that it weren’t the case. “Fine,” he says, leading the younger man out his apartment, “but I can’t promise I’ll behave.”

“Dude when have you ever?” Andy shuts the door, smiling at Cas’s chest. “By the way, when’d you pick up the necklace. It’s really out there, y’know?”

“…Got it from a friend.” He won’t further entertain conversation about Dean’s amulet, traversing the path towards Andy’s van in silence while his friend yammers on about what he’s been doing. Weathers the one-sided conversation until they’re a block from Angel Oasis and Cas turns the volume knob loud enough rock music overpowers the younger man.

It doesn’t deter Andy. He talks alongside the singer like he’s part of the band, filling in the off beats with colorful commentary. Biting his lip, Cas rolls his shoulders and ignores the building pressure at his temple telling him to bite his friend’s head off. If he lost Andy now, how would he get his weed?

Stalled at a red light, the color bright enough it grates at his vision, he nearly misses what Andy says. “Huh?”

“Singer’s sure is crowded today,” he laughs, “I wonder if he brought back that totally awesome sandwich…” Cas leans forward for a better peek out Andy’s window.

On an average day, Singer’s draws a sizeable crowd of surfers and stoners. Seduced by the fair price of whatever change rattles from within their pocket while ordering. Staying because the owner doesn’t care if you stick around well after the meal is eaten. The fire marshal would go ballistic if he saw how people packed themselves into booths and tables. Given that the curb seems quadruple in size of kids smoking, chatting, and eating from paper baskets, he can only imagine the happening scene inside.

“…it’s funny, dude,” Andy continues, “like that sandwich is so good it’s like – like awesome, right? But I always zone when I’m done… puts you in a really chill mood.”

Cas scoffs, “Probably because Bobby packs it with grass, man.”

“For real?” He stares at the diner again, “Maybe we should stop in for a bite ‘stead of hitting up Serg.”

“Look at that line. By the time we get to the counter the withdrawal’d already set in.” Someone honks from behind, light turning green without their notice. “Come on, go! That horn is such a drag.”

“I know… maybe he should get a sandwich.”

They revel in their amusement, Andy slamming on the gas as the light flashes yellow. Their tailgater’s honking fades into the background while they continue unimpeded. Rounding a couple of teens smoking joints by a signpost, the buildings start disappearing. Spread wider distances between each other as pavement meets sand.

Sergei lives in a dilapidated bungalow on a secluded part of the beach. A cove with patches of dirt in certain areas that allows for his product to breathe in the salty sea air. Unfettered growth because by the time cops might arrive, they’ve exhausted themselves arresting the locals breaking the law by being. Stuffing their cruisers with small fish while a golden whale of ‘criminal activity’ swims free.

_Very free._ Through the windshield, they see Sergei stretching with no coverage for his pasty skin. Cas swallows down the sour taste darkening his tongue when Sergei, surprisingly flexible, moves into a position that swings his belly around and flashes his oddly hairless junk. Sole eye of his snake staring at him. “Did I upset the universe?” he asks aloud, “Is she mad? Pushed me down a long flight of stairs and this is one of the many steps I’m crashing into?”

“Be cool, dude, seriously,” Andy warns, studying him with an insight normally absent. “You okay?”

“Just craving some grass, Andy. That’s all.”

“I’ve seen you when it’s just Mary Jane on the mind,” Andy says, “this ain’t it. You sure you’re doin’ all right?”

“ _Groovy_ ,” Cas growls. He exits the van; choosing Sergei rather than an interrogative Andy, knowing the former will help quell the latter. “Sergei,” he shouts on his approach, Andy at his heels by the sound of his footfalls, “how’s your inventory?” They hop a rusted steel barrier separating parking from the beach, closing in on their dealer.

Sergei wakes from his trance, shifting his stance so his feet are spaced a few inches further apart. “Cas,” he hums, Russian accent thick as he is, “always to the point with you, eh? Wonder if you square masquerading as hippie…”

Cas sighs, shoulders tensing while he crosses his arms. “Sorry. Hi, how are you? Enjoying the weather? Trying a new hairstyle? …Now can we get back to business?”

Sergei doesn’t rise to Cas’s bet, drawing his limbs back into a careful pose instead. Like a straight line, hands folded and pointed upwards towards the sun. “Don’t care much for that… _business_. It dirty word,” he spits, darkening a speck of sand below. “Filled with negative energies that chain the spirit.”

“So what do you call what you do, then?”

“I am providing community service, helping others reach enlightenment through natural means.”

“At a price,” he snarks.

“A fee.” Sergei ends his meditation and relaxes into a normal posture. He grabs a discarded length of cloth painted in psychedelic colors, tossing it over his head. Pulls his hair and necklaces out from underneath the kaftan, former flowing behind him in the breeze while the latter clatters as it settles. “Equal exchange. Very fair. Although I do impose more on those carrying _bad_ vibes to my pad.”

Andy intervenes, laughing too loudly. He pushes Cas behind him, “Don’t worry about him, Serg. Y’know how ol’ Cas gets when it’s been too long without grass…”

“I will take your word for it,” he tells Andy, keeping a critical gaze on Cas. Skin crawling from the intense focus, like it’s being flayed by untampered thought. “I do not see him enough to pass judgment on what is his ‘normal’. But then again – what is normal? Can there truly be an agreed-upon definition for the word? Or are we all doing what we can to live by our own ‘normal’?”

His questions increase the pressure hammering inside his head, Cas reminded of why he limits his interactions with the Eastern envoy. Philosophical delineations and mystical practices don’t agree with his constitution. Luckily Andy built up an immunity. He nods along, grinning, “Ain’t that the truth. Like, why don’t we hash that out while filling up our supply?”

“Very good. Recently, I got this essay on very topic an old friend of mine from Moscow sent, hidden inside children’s bear toy. It would honor me to read it aloud.” Pausing on the porch, he nods at Cas, “Would you care to listen? Might do good for bad vibes.”

“Thanks for the offer, Serg,” Cas says, “but I’m really digging the energy _right here_.”

Sergei shrugs, “Right on.” He disappears into the house, Andy joining after shooting a deathly serious glare Cas shrugs off with practiced ease.

Alone, Cas eases the weight on his spirit. Sitting, he digs his feet into the sand until they’re buried. Then rests his arms and chin on his head. With the ocean far behind him, all Cas can do is study the decorative bungalow Sergei calls home.

He first traces lines of the cookie-cutter architecture, this building like one of many that dots the shores along Mer La Vista. Built back in the day by a hungry developer capitalizing on the vacation market. Cas admits the construction was enticing – a two-floor project that looked like someone transplanted a miniature castle from England onto the West Coast and using a wrap -around porch as a moat.

Unfortunately for the greedy would-be tycoon, a horrible storm washed through that scuttled half his properties. Sold the remaining buildings at a loss while running with his tail between his legs. The new owners bided their time with the bungalows, for whatever reason, long enough they became infested with the nastiest kind of pests – _squatters_.

Repurposed the buildings in ways squares never imagined and could not recover. Signs of Sergei’s own tampering very evident. Paint slapped along the wooden siding in a swirling array, sometimes covered by pinned flags hand-dyed and embroidered with strange patterns. A wreath of recycled cans and bottles hung proudly on the door while beads hung in lieu of curtains. Finally, tying the chaos together, was a little tent set up near the side. Pitched for special ‘sessions’ Sergei hosts that ‘magnifies the spiritual energy and shines enlightenment onto those who accept’.

Fancy talk for downing acid and sweating the day away, trapped listening to Sergei yammer on without interruption because they’re more focused on keeping their heads from flying off their shoulders.

One of the few occasions where Cas visited, he watched the aftermath of Sergei’s session. An older gentleman crying, shedding his suit while stumbling free of the tent. “You’re so right,” he cried, falling to his knees, “my life… been living it all wrong. I need to change… _change_.”

Sergei ignored the man in the midst of his crises and approached him and Andy. Offered his experience in guiding them towards hidden truths about the universe they’ve been missing. Cas scoffed, “Me and the universe understand each other just fine, Serg.”

“Do you? Universe speaks in strange tongue… often times we misinterpret, hear what we want,” he laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it, “I give clear translation. Tell you what you might not know is being said… or want to hear even.”

“Like I said. We’re on our own frequency. No problems here.”

Although as of late her messages have been coming in mixed, he still wouldn’t consider Sergei’s approach. Acid’s too powerful a drug; a key that unlocks every part of your brain and then shocks it into overdrive. Easy for someone to slip behind the wheel and take your thoughts for a spin. Whenever Cas dropped, he preferred either doing it on his own or at crowded parties where he is lost in a sea of others clawing for salvation through the drug, too. Keeping the wheel in his own hands.

Backed by the gentle crash of the ocean waves behind him, Cas finds his vision blurring. Nearly asleep by the time Andy and Sergei return, chatting amicably. Grass tickles his nose, heady scent making obvious what kept them so long.

“Hey, man,” Andy says, “I got the shit!” He brandishes twin baggies in both hands, grinning madly.

Cas stands, back cracking as he rises. “Finally. Go put that _shit_ in the van.”

Andy nearly trips on the fencing, shouting, “I’m okay!” It drags a heavy sigh from Cas’s lip, regret fogging his breath instead of preferred grass.

Sergei giggles nearby, “I always enjoy when he visits. Provides much amusement, like walking video box.” Then, mirth fading, he looks to Cas. “You, not so much.”

Snorting, Cas picks at where his shorts rode up. “Something we can agree on.”

“I meant what I said, before,” he continues, studying Cas in a way he doesn’t care for. “There dark, swirling cloud of badness hanging over head. Bleeding into all positive light and obscuring it, bringing doubt and anger. No good to keep yourself chained to this… man.”

“And here I was just starting to enjoy it.” Cas mocks, spraying sand with a lazy kick, “Well? Got any remedies for it, then? A crystal, a chant… more drugs?”

He shakes his head, fiddling with an amethyst dangling around his neck. “You mock my charms yet wear a protective totem, yourself? Many contradictions hiding inside you.”

“Protective? Gotta be kidding me…” Cas pinches his brow, “I don’t know why I’m still here.”

“Because deep down, you know I have wisdom that helps.”

“Whatever you say, _mighty shaman_.” He pokes the bear, marking his exit with a bow and straightening only when his ass hits the fence. When that happens, Sergei is nowhere he can see. A win, in his books.

Cas swings his legs over and walks towards Andy’s van. Fingers twitching for a joint to replace the celebratory high with a real one. The closer he gets, however, he can hear Andy’s voice. Then another’s, accented and _familiar_. Hope that he could jump right to being lost in a haze goes up in smoke. _Ironic_.

“Andy,” Cas saunters into view, drawing three sets of eyes to him, “friends of yours?”

“Friends of yours, actually,” he says, leaning on the doors of his van with arms hidden behind. Unsure if they jumped him before or after he hid the grass. “Said they wanted to speak to you?”

“Mr. Novak,” the smaller man from the station greets with an outstretched hand, “you’re a hard fellow to track down.” Cas stares at the hand, delayed response melting the forced pleasantness off his face. “Right…”

While risky, he opts for playing dumb. “Is this about the breaking and entering thing? I thought I was, like, cleared of all that?”

“No, not about that.” He turns to his friend, the taller’s cool glare never breaking from Cas. “We do have a few questions that we hope might… shed a light on ongoing investigations. From what Detective Winchester told us, you’re _very_ familiar with the local ‘scene’, as you might say…”

“Yeah, we say scene… but not like that.” Cas twirls a loose strand of hair around his finger, keeping with an air of boredom. Glad his sunglasses protect a hidden scrutiny shining in his eyes. “What do you even need my help for, anyway? Didn’t you two say you worked for the British government –“

“ _American_ government, Mr. Novak –“

“And stop with all that ‘Mr. Novak’ crap,” Cas scoffs, “Making me feel old… you can call me Cas.”

The smaller agent blusters, wiping at the sweat dripping across his forehead with a tiny rag. His and his friend’s bodies boiling, no doubt because of the arbitrary dress code enforced by strait-laced squares. “Um, okay, Cas –“

“While we’re at it,” he interrupts again, “you know my name but I don’t know either of yours. Skipped right into business which,” he borrows from Sergei’s antics, spitting on the ground. Misses and hits the tip of a brown leather shoe, “gross. So not a fan.”

His actions rile up the calmer of the two but doesn’t provoke more of a reaction than a wobbled lip. The agent smooths his hands down his jacket, scowling. “Apologies, my name is Special Agent Mick Davies, and my associate,” Mick growls, jabbing the other with his elbow, “is Special Agent Arthur Ketch. We work for the FBI.” At that, they produce their badges in practiced synchronicity.

Cas flicks Mick’s badge, chuckling. “No foolin’? I always wondered what the ‘B’ stood for… most folks told me it meant ‘Boobies’, didn’t think it’d be for ‘British’.”

Mick hides his badge, patience finally worn thin. “Your country has needs of you… Cas.”

“I thought the draft only came for America’s youth?”

“We’ve been conducting investigations into… certain areas of interests,” Mick explains, skirting around the truth. “that are localized here in the greater Los Angeles area. A man such as yourself with… experience in the shadowy corners, might know a thing or two, yes?”

“Well that depends,” he says, “what should I know a thing or two _about_?”

“Missing persons, strange cult-like gatherings,” Ketch growls, finally contributing to the conversation. His gaze dips momentarily towards Andy, “ _drug use_.”

“Throw a stone and you’ll hit anyone with a modest knowledge of drug use around these parts,” Cas tells them, “the other stuff though… not my scene. I tend to keep my services simple: pictures, shakedowns, and what-not… Say, if you’re looking into missing people, does that mean it’s like a… a big problem?”

“Not larger than usual, I can assure you.” Mick squeezes Ketch’s shoulder; smile thin on his face. “My partner was just giving you some examples that might… jog your memory.”

Cas shrugs, “I’m sorry, then. I’ve been hunkered down following this recent case of a cheating, deadbeat professor. Haven’t really been hanging around this ‘ _scene_ ’ too often… but Andy!” He latches onto his friend, shaking him, “Andy knows these streets as well as I do. Better than me, actually. If you want to know something, he’s definitely your best bet.”

Andy gapes at him, clearly against helping a facet of ‘the man’. But with bruising strength Cas shuts down his protest. “Sure,” he says, “I think I overheard a few things… at this party I was at. I can drop what I know into your knowledge boxes… if you think you can handle it?”

The agents share a look. While Mick tastes the bait Cas dangles in front of him, Ketch remains unconvinced. With no surprise, he passes on Andy’s offer. “Okay,” Mick says, though, “what have _you_ heard?”

“Not here…” Andy tells him, guiding Mick onto the beach, “It’s uh – it’s really private info…” He and Mick’s voices fade, leaving Cas with Ketch.

Immediately Cas is slammed up against the van. “What the fuck –“

“You’re an annoying little freak, you know that?”

Cas rolls his eyes from behind his sunglasses, snorting. “Why bother when people like you are always around to remind me.” His sarcasm is rewarded with a punch that sucks all breath out of him. “ _Pig_ , that’s against the law.”

“So is smoking drugs, hippie.”

“Smoking drugs – do you hear yourself? That’s not how you phrase it… whatever.” Cas shoves at Ketch, terror racing up his spine when he cannot move him. “I’ve got nothing on me, anyway. I’ll even be nice and consent to a strip search.” The tongue swiped over teeth and kiss combo usually sends men running.

Not him. “I bet you’d like that, too,” Ketch smirks, arm pressing tighter against his chest. He fiddles with the collar of Cas’s shirt, clammy hands dipping underneath and meeting skin. “Free love freak. Probably sleep with anything that has a pulse.”

“Very rude to all the corpses I fucked – _gak_!”

Ketch’s hand covers his throat, tipping Cas’s chin and making his head smack on the metal van door. The agent leans in close, breath tickling Cas’s ear. “Listen closely because I’m only going to say this once. Stay _away_ from that which doesn’t concern you. What’s going on is already being handled, and the government doesn’t care for interlopers. Do you know how we handle flies on the wall in the FBI?” Ketch drags his hand from Cas’s neck, only to slam it on the space beside his other ear. Cas flinches despite himself. “We _squash_ ‘em. Messy, sure… but it gets the job done.”

Gasping, Cas wastes a moment regaining control of his erratic heartbeat. “This is… a lot of trouble you’re going through. Intimidating one hippie… do the cats who stuff your pocket know this is how you bill their time?”

“You’d be surprised how well the government pays to intimidate hippies,” Ketch says, releasing Cas. “Although a job well done is reward enough.”

Cas sags on the van, checking his chest where a bruise definitely begins blotting his skin. “Thank God I don’t pay taxes.”

“Probably don’t make enough to qualify for ‘em… _leech_ ,” Ketch fixes his tie, smirking, “you’re definitely no _Dick Roman_. At least… Roman in his prime.”

That deals damage more than any punch could. Like Ketch shoved his hand into Cas’s body and wringed his spirit. An admittance, being in on his actions. Although Cas wonders if it’s only the Roman file Ketch knows of, or if he found out about the other files he took.

Before any more can be said, Mick and Andy return. Mick stomping while Andy babbles helplessly wildly behind. “It was good at the time, right? Hey – hey! I’m sorry, dude, I get a little spastic when I’m nervous.” Any confusion about what Andy talks about clears when Mick clears the fence and hisses as his bare feet meet hot pavement. “Hold up!” he continues, “I didn’t finish my story!”

“I’ve heard all I needed,” Mick says, wincing, “Ketch. Let’s go… I feel a tremendous headache setting in.”

“I’ve got something for that, too!”

“ _Now_ , Ketch.”

Ketch looks at Cas, anger gone. Confident satisfaction graces his features, curdling Cas’s stomach. “Yeah, I think we’re done here. What do you think… Cas?”

“I think…” Cas glances between the agents, sense of self-preservation fleeing as a grin unfurls across his face. Meeting Ketch’s challenge with his own. “I think you better be careful, agent.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he turns to Mick, “the longer you stay like that, the more you might find you enjoy it. From then, it’s a slippery slope towards dropping out. And what would our nation’s capital do without _men_ like _you_.”

Mick’s glower loses its effect by the tiny dance he does. They leave in palpable silence, Cas watching them until both men turn a corner. Safe, his legs falter and collapse underneath him. Andy rushes over too late, and Cas feels pain bloom from where his knee scrapes against the asphalt.

“Jesus fuck, Cas,” Andy hisses, “what the hell’ve you gotten into? FBI? Should I expect Hoover to pop up the next time I hang out with you?”

“No, Hoover would never get his hands dirty if he can help it.” He shifts onto his ass, hissing when he sees the expected cut on his knee. “By the way,” Cas asks, rubbing at the blood, “What happened to the suit’s loafers?”

Andy giggles, scratching his neck. “Noticed he was having trouble walking on the sand so I told him he should take his shoes off… at some point my arms fly and smack into him. He almost hits the surf, but I swoop in last minute, big hero shit. He’s safe but his shoes started new lives with the fishes.” More laughter, “Did you mean what you said? Think either of them have a chance at dropping out?”

“Hey stranger things have happened…”

“So…” Andy says, “what do you want to do now?”

Cas raises a brow. “I want to light a fucking joint and get so fucking stoned I forget any of this fuckery ever happened.” Andy agrees wholeheartedly, both men climbing into Andy’s van to access their stash. Roll a few papers, light a flame under the stub, and Cas is off.

* * *

He needed this.

Window rolled down, cruising the streets of Mer La Vista with a joint in his hand and the wind blowing through his hair, Cas forgets about his worries while rooting himself into the present. Nods along absentmindedly with whatever song Andy pumps through his speakers, smoke trailing past his lips when he mumbles to the lyrics that he knows.

“Hey… is that lady staring at us?”

Cas lolls his head towards Andy, opening a bleary eye. Andy’s hands are tightly locked on the steering wheel, chin lowered with barely an inch of space between it and wheel. Idling at a green light, Andy found himself worried by other matters. “Probably seeing things, dude…”

“No, she is… Cas, look!”

He does, regretting it.

Kelly watches them with a severe frown, standing outside the dry cleaner like the first time he met her, he and Andy having stumbled on Cas’s office street without knowing. Her disapproving gaze pierces the bubble of his high, good cheer slowly hissing out the hole until it’s at its lowest point without being sober. “Fuck,” Cas drags a hand across his face, pushing his sunglasses far up on his head, “you’re not seeing things.”

“You think she wants to party?”

“No,” Cas says, opening the passenger door, “it’s – better you don’t know. I’ll talk to her. You… keep doing what you were doing.”

Andy leans into the empty space Cas abandoned, yelling, “She’s hot, man! Nice score!”

“It’s not like that!” he yells back. Andy grins, winking while giving him a thumbs up before driving off. Cas sighs, a terrible weight settling on his chest. Pinching the stub of his joint, Cas place the unlit grass in his shirt pocket while closing the distance between them. “Kelly,” he says, “it’s been a while.”

She purses her lips, looking askance. “That it has… your friend seems – he seems… _nice_?”

“He’s a fucking degenerate,” Cas tells her, scratching his chin, “but I doubt you’re here to discuss my social life. What brings you by again? Thought we left things nice and _uncooperative_ back at your pad.”

Kelly’s façade cracks at his mention, nervousness more palpable than ever. Her eyes bounce around, latching on somewhere far below Cas’s belt. “You’ve hurt yourself,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“We should get that cleaned up before it gets infected.” She slips her hand around his wrist in a loose hold, guiding him up his office steps like a mother would her misbehaving child. Even with Kelly’s flown the coop, instincts offer a nice distraction.

He sits where she directs him, waiting while she ducks into his bathroom. Kelly emerges with a wet, wadded-up ball of toilet paper. “You don’t have any towels?”

“Sorry, I’ve been meaning to pick them up from the embroiderer’s.” His joke does him no favors. Kelly draws the line at reprimanding him, however, dragging a chair and sitting a few inches away. She grabs his leg and, despite protest, hefts it onto her lap. Dabs around the wound with meticulous care. “Y’know,” Cas says, “you don’t have to do this.”

“And you will?”

“No… probably would’ve let the blood dry and fall off on its own.”

“Then I _have to_ do this.”

Cas lets her work. Focuses on the slight sting where Kelly brushes the torn skin, apologizing every time it’s too close and he breathes in with a pointed edge. Toilet paper a bloody mess, Kelly abandons it and opens her purse. Reveals a silver flask which she proceeds to uncap and pour over his knee. Cas curses, but cannot move his leg away. Kelly holding it in place until finished. When she does, though, Cas keeps his leg there.

“You always carry that on you?” Cas asks her, “For emergencies like this?”

She smiles, studying the flask. “No, I… this is new. I’ve been… it’s hard.” Kelly sips at its contents, swallowing the burn with a pinched expression fixed to her brow. She stows it back in its hiding spot. “I’ve been trying to… to work up the nerve to see you again. After how we ended our conversation last time, I… I caused you more trouble than you needed.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Actually, I do,” Kelly admits, grimacing, “My neighbors told me what happened when I got home. And then they called me, the _police_. Asking if I wanted to press charges on the man who broke into my home. I said no, of course…” She wrings her hands, squeezing her ring finger every few seconds. “If I had been a little bit easier, I’m sure all of that ugliness could have been avoided.”

Cas shrugs, “Sometimes things play out the way they need to. Not like my pitstop wasn’t helpful.”

“Still…”

Sighing, Cas cuts the cord on Kelly’s pity party. “If you’re feeling this bad, why don’t you make it up to me by being honest about the big smackdown between you and Jack that started this whole mess,” he says. After a beat passes where Kelly chews on her lip instead of flapping it, Cas helps her along. “It had something to do with Nick Pellegrino, right?”

She startles, knocking Cas’s leg off her in response. “You know about him?”

“Know him?” he scoffs, folding himself into a lotus position on his seat, “I _met_ the son of a bitch. You could’ve done way better… _Pretty Kelly_.”

Kelly flinches at the nickname, Cas not too numb to feel immediately bad at calling her that. Before he can apologize, she releases the stranglehold on her ring finger and sucks a deep, shuttering breath down. “Looking back… yes, I could have,” she starts, concentrating on a far-off point behind him. “But when you’re that young and-and hungry… you’ll eat up any attention that comes your way. Especially to the first person who you _think_ sees the real you and not what they want to see…” Sniffling, the tears gloss her eyes, yet they never fall. “Growing up, all anyone could talk about was my looks. ‘You’re such a pretty girl, Kelly’. ‘No surprise you won Miss Teen of the Auto Scene since you were the youngest Homecoming Queen our school’s ever had’. ‘You’ll make a man one very lucky groom’… yes Nick saw all that, but he also saw that there was _more_. Told me I had what it took to be a great lawyer and didn’t spout the same sexist nonsense everyone else did when I told them of my dreams.”

“He seemed so… _mature_ , in that way. Above the pettiness and stupidity most boys my age at the time were ruled by. So many hours were lost discussing cases and filings he made us read for class, that many of my peers wouldn’t engage me with because they thought I ‘wouldn’t get it’. He took the time after class to let me express all my opinions in his office, sometimes running so late we ended up moving to a nearby diner so we could eat _and_ talk shop. I guess it seemed natural that what we shared would become more than teacher and student.” Kelly’s lips disappear into a frail, thin line. “What _wasn’t obvious_ – at least to _me_ – was that he planned it all from the start. Knew exactly what to say to turn my head.”

Cas reaches out, freezing when a delayed thought hits the brakes telling him that might not be the best course of action. “I’m sorry,” he says instead, “but… what he did, that wasn’t your fault.”

She nods, brushing trembling fingers under her eyes. “But someone had to accept the results of our actions… and he wouldn’t. I remember how I found out – I had been feeling quite sick lately, and my mother took me to the doctors. Asked for my pee for… for whatever reason. A few days later while writing a report for his class we get the call and – I never saw her so angry. Going on about dead rabbits and my soul going to hell, I barely knew that she meant I was with child… with-with Jack.”

“They kicked me out. Told me to do the right thing and spend every day trying to make up for spitting in God’s face. With my suitcase and backpack I found the nearest payphone and called a cab company to take me to campus.” Kelly chuckles, a warbled note of a canary trapped in a cave, “I wasn’t even thinking about what my parents did. I was… was too wrapped up in thinking how perfect raising a family with Nick would be. Trading off on who watched over the kids while the other fought in court, raising our own firm… But, the strangest thing happened on my way to his office. In the hallway this – this woman was leaving, and she kissed him. And I heard her tell him not to be late for dinner this time, as little Steven misses his daddy.”

“That’s how you found out?”

“He never wore his ring,” she says, “And there weren’t any pictures of them in his office. Found out why as I caught him hiding it in his drawers when I walked in.”

Kelly then describes the fallout of her discovery. Whacking at Nick’s chest until she broke down crying in his arms, admitting the untimely fact of her pregnancy. Nick, like most cheaters when hearing that word, rapidly fired through four of the five stages of grief. Stuck on bartering as he shoved money into Kelly’s hands, telling her of a doctor he knew that could fix their problem within a few days. “My parents already know about the baby,” she argued, “if they ever found out I did _that_ they would do worse than kick me out… please, why can’t you even consider –“

“Because I already have a kid, dammit!” Nick slammed his fist on the desk, startling her, “And a wife! So whatever – whatever schoolgirl fantasies you’re deluding yourself with, you can get those out of your head right now. We need to think about this _realistically_.”

She squared her shoulders, gaze unflinching even while tears poured down her face. “Schoolgirl fantasies? Is that what you think of… of us? Our future? Do you even love me? Ever love me?” His silence told her what she needed. “Okay, fine. You want me to think _realistically_? Then I’m having this baby, whether you want it or not.”

Nick sighed, moving around his desk. “Kelly, I didn’t… don’t say things you don’t mean –“

“Oh, you don’t know how much I mean this.”

“Pretty Kelly,” he cooed, grabbing her wrist, “C’mon… I’m sorry I lost my temper, you just sprung this on me – and you’re being so difficult. Why don’t you hear me out?”

Kelly stomped on his foot, forcing him off her. “I’m done listening to you. _Forever_.” Stormed from his office and didn’t look back.

“…Dropped out of college the very next day,” she tells Cas, “Used the money he gave me to pay for an apartment while I took a job as a secretary. Not the life I wanted but… I don’t regret Jack. He was the only good thing to come from the entire ordeal.” Kelly relaxes, legs sliding across the floor until she hits the legs of Cas’s chair. “That’s why whenever Jack asked about his dad I… I lied. Told him he was a soldier, and we were set to marry after he finished up his last tour. But he died overseas, before he was born. I always thought I would carry this to my grave… somehow Jack found out about the bastard.” She pauses, glancing at Cas. “How did _you_ find out, anyway?”

“Jack did all the legwork,” Cas told her, “Found an envelope he hid that were filled with all these pictures of you and the professor at a lake?”

Kelly curses, rubbing a tired hand against her temple. “I should have gotten rid of those when I had the chance…”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Nostalgia? Sentimentality? A reminder that it wasn’t all too bad,” she says, smiling, “It was the month before the fall semester, and I invited him to my parents’ property out there for the week. Being there… that was where I started thinking we were serious. One night we laid a blanket on the ground and spent the night counting constellations, and then we…” Blushing, she stutters over the implication. “It was part of a bunch of stuff of mine my parents kept tucked away in their attic. And I only got access to _that_ after their funeral.”

“I’m… I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks…” Kelly shakes her head, turning off memory lane and back to more pressing matters. “Anyway, one night we were having dinner and it was tense. Tenser than any other. I asked if he could pass the salt and he… exploded on me, asking me about him. I couldn’t speak I was so surprised. When I managed to overcome the shock of it I… could have handled myself better.”

Cas asks, “What did you do?”

“Ordered him to his room,” she shrugs, “grounded him. He laughed in my face, and then ran off. Took the car, so I couldn’t even follow. I was so angry that night I… I broke out some brandy and got toasted until I passed out. When I woke up Jack left a voicemail saying he would be staying with friends for a few days until he cooled off. I thought it was for the best, except…”

“He came back different,” he finished for her, “Interesting…”

“You said you met him? Nick?” Kelly asks, “Do you think Jack went to him? That he might have had a hand in Jack’s…”

Cas knocks that train off its tracks before it reaches the station. “He and Jack definitely met, but not like that. Ol’ Nick didn’t want anything to do with him then and hadn’t changed in all those years.”

“Is there anything new you’ve discovered about Jack?”

“I have a few feelers out,” he says, “possibilities I’m considering. Do you know anything more about where Jack might’ve gone in that time after your fight and when he came back?”

Kelly huffs, standing. “Obviously if I did, I would have told you!”

“Hey, cool it,” Cas warns, rising alongside her, “’m only making sure. Sometimes people forget things that didn’t seem important. So can you not jump down my throat and take a few seconds to _think_.”

While unappreciative of his tone, Kelly does as asked. Leans on his desk, her eyes closed in thought. As he waits, Cas picks up the dried toilet paper ball of blood. Walks it to his toilet and flushes it away. Over the sound of flushes, he hears her gasp, “He mentioned something.”

Cas pokes his head out of the bathroom, “What?”

“I asked where he was going,” she says, “and all he told me was that he was on his way to a party.”

“…That’s all?”

“Well it’s _something_ , isn’t it?”

“He didn’t happen to mention _where_ the party would be?”

Her smile falters, resurging with a smug edge as her chest puffs with a second wind. “On my windshield,” she explains, digging into her purse again, “I noticed a ticket under one of the wipers. Meant to bring it up with him except… a few days later, that’s when he disappeared.” Kelly hands the crumpled slip to Cas, “Will this help?”

Cas accepts her clue, reading the line where the officer marked the location. Recognizing the area code, he swallows a groan. “I think this might,” he tells her, “thank you, Kelly. Not just for this but for telling me everything. It must have been hard.”

She fixes a strand of hair that fell out of her ear. “The present’s a much harder place to live in than the past.”

“Heavy…”

Kelly clears her throat and looks at him. “Is there anything else you need me to relive before I leave? I still have a few errands that need my attention.”

He nearly lets her escape, but a nagging voice in the back of his mind needs a little more. “The police – you said they called you, about my… antics. Did you get the name of the officer who was on the phone?”

“Yes, and it wasn’t an officer. It was a detective,” she explains, oblivious to the unease rippling throughout his soul. “Actually, the same detective who I spoke with about Jack when I first reported him missing. He thought that you might have had something to do with his disappearance which – which I knew was _crazy_.”

“His name,” he cuts her off, “what was his name?”

“Winchester.”

He guides her out of his office with ease, falling apart only when the door closes after her. Cas braces his hands on it, shuddering through an obscene number of chills racking his body. Rushing waters crashing over him, trying to trap him in the murky depths below. A repeat of his breakdown outside The Cage. Except Cas doesn’t shy away from drowning this time. Breathing deeply, he dives headfirst into the shadows challenging him.

Walking from where he left Kelly, he slides into his chair and lounges with feet up on the desk. Grabs for his phone and dials a number, overpowering his dread with repeated mantras of how ‘it’s for the greater good’. Mumbles them until the dial tone breaks and an echo answers, “Hello?”

“Hey Jimmy, it’s Cas –“

“Cas,” Jimmy sighs, Cas already imagining the wrinkles caused by saying his name. “What do you need this time?”

Cas pouts, “Can’t I call just to catch up?”

“Not in my experience.”

He rolls his eyes and presses the receiver against his temple. “Fine,” he admits, “I need to speak to Claire. Is she in?”

“She’s doing her homework right now,” his brother says, “so whatever hippie bullshit you’re involved in, keep my daughter out of it.”

“No, no it’s nothing like that,” he tells Jimmy, “I just want her opinion on something. A gift for a lady friend of mine, figured she’d point me in the right direction.”

“Y’know Cas, I could give you a few ideas. Or Amelia, when she gets back from her book club…”

“Thanks but no thanks, Jimmy. Your tastes and my tastes are _not_ the same.” He laughs despite himself, egged on by the growl of frustration rasping from the speaker. “Claire, at least, is cool. She’ll know what’s trendy and hip and all the other slang kids use that we have no clue what it means.”

Jimmy drags his decision longer than it should, but thankfully relents. He calls for Claire, warning Cas that if he’s lying there’ll be swift consequences. “Yeah, yeah,” he rolls his eyes, “since I have you, is ol’ Ishy still his _pleasant_ self?”

“You’d know if you bothered to visit him.”

“Hey, you want him to live a long and healthy life, right? Figured keeping me and him out of the same room would do just that.” Any further small talk ends when Claire steals the phone from her father, greeting him. “Hey Claire, you doing okay? Enjoying the freedoms of youth before adulthood bites and sucks it all out of you?”

“I mean I can’t complain,” she chuckles, “Dad said you need my help with a gift?”

“Fuck no, I just told him that so he’d put you on. I’m working a case and it looks like there’s rumblings in your neck of the woods. Wanted to see if you can spare some information for your coolest uncle?”

“Depends what you mean by rumblings,” she mutters, “What’s going on? What kinda case are you working?”

Cas thanks karma for spiting his brother, giving Claire more of his traits than Jimmy’s. “Well, without getting you too involved – for your well-being and all that crap – someone I know went to a party in your area. Then the next day they disappeared. I need you to ask around and let me know of any more happenings.”

“Freaky… but I can do that. It’ll cost you, though, seeing as the parties around here are _so_ not my type of scene.” Then, with false cheer, she ends their conversation. “I’ll call you later with a list of the grooviest gifts you can give her. Talk to you soon, Uncle Cas!”

“Bye Claire! Tell your grandfather to fuck off the next time you see him.”

“I’ll pass that along.” She hangs up, and Cas lets the receiver fall from his grasp. He plucks his joint and lights it again, draining what’s left of the stub.

With Claire in his corner doing some work, Cas considers his next move. Especially with the added context of certain players and their movements on the board. Avoids thinking of which side a freckled knight rests on, instead considering the overconfident pawns that made a risky show of force. Contemplates the taunt Ketch left him with, a name he hadn’t thought about for too long.

“Okay Mr. Roman,” he asks aloud, grass smoke billowing from his mouth, “where should I go next?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What'd you think?
> 
> Drop a kudos, a comment, or both - I'd love to see it!


	7. i'm addicted to you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Thursday. Another Chapter.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!!

As Cas stands under the doorway, silent save for the rhythmic crinkling of a note in his fist, he’s hit with a sudden, rare thought. _I shouldn’t be here._ His skin burns from the dozen and counting stares boring into him, sweat charting a path from his forehead down to the collar of his plaid shirt. He shifts awkwardly on his feet. Coals burning through the thick, rubber soles of the boots he wore. Borrowed from Bobby for his disguise, so he can blend in as another average, boring, white man with a problem.

There’ll be none of that, here. In the basement of the Celebration of Our Lord Jesus Church, he sticks out like snowfall on asphalt. Toothpaste on black slacks. An average, boring, white man in a room full of black people.

Someone clears their throat, drawing Cas’s attention from his embarrassment. A woman rises from where she sat on the farthest point of the circle. She brushes her hands on her jeans before folding them behind her. “Hello,” she says, smiling, “Are you here for the meeting?”

Cas shakes off his stupor, scratching at his neck while attempting a smile of his own. “I, um… see – about that…”

She raises an unimpressed brow, “Well?”

“Would it be okay if I were?”

“No.” The man from her right speaks out, arms folded. Expression wholly different from the woman’s despite the identical outfits. Jeans, black turtlenecks, and a beret. “Why don’t you see yourself –“

“Victor!” She hisses, slapping his shoulder, “Don’t be rude.” Victor turns his glare from Cas, huffing defiantly. Challenging her. She stays firm, waiting until he signals defeat by slumping further into his seat. Smoothing a few baby hairs, the woman faces Cas again. “Please, grab a chair and join us.”

He listens, pocketing the note and grabbing one of the metal folding chairs leaning against the wall. Cas squeezes between one woman with an afro puff and a man whose bald head shone with aid of the buzzing fluorescents. They slide from him, chairs squeaking as they gave him a wide berth. “I wasn’t interrupting anything, was I?”

“No,” she says, “Lamar had finished sharing his story with us. So, if you would like…?”

“Yes, that’d be okay.” He coughs, tugging on his collar. “Hello, everyone, my name is Jimmy. And I’m an alcoholic.”

“…Hi, Jimmy.”

“I’ve been sober for about… oh, four years I’d say,” Cas starts, fiddling with a fancy chip he stole one night when trolling bars for a cheat. “Decided I needed a change after I woke up one morning with a killer hangover and a – uh… a tattoo in a place I’d rather not say.” His chuckling dies rather quickly seeing how the crowd doesn’t warm to it. “Anyway… I’ve done these meetings before. Not _my_ first time at the rodeo. Although it’s been hard getting back in the saddle after I moved out here. I’ve been hopping around, from meeting to meeting, trying to find a place that I…” Cas glances around the room, struggling with his next few words. “Somewhere that I might… fit in?”

Not all of what he said were lies. Most of it. But like all great make-believe, there lay a kernel of truth buried deep within. Cas _had_ been attending a shit-ton of meetings, for research.

While going through his notes on Mr. Roman, he found himself re-reading the blurb he jotted down from Dick’s old lady. About the ‘retreats’ he visited after every drunken romp that spun out of control. How the Institute for Conscious Repair of the Human Soul marketed itself in the same way, which is why he ever stepped foot in the building.

Cas figured there might be others, with the same condition, who attended the Institute. Or at least heard of it. Give him more than the tidbits he already knew, like maybe a contact, or a _location_. Only every meeting he visited, no one took his bait. No eyes flashed in recognition, nor did they give any sort of tell that showed they knew of such a place. He probably visited half the AA’s in the entire Los Angeles area, and after this ends will drive onto the next half.

“So, in all this time,” the woman, obviously in charge of today’s meeting, asked, “you haven’t found a place that fit?”

“A few places seemed nice, but my father always told me I should at least try every car in the lot before making a purchase. Bad advice if you want to spend your whole day at a dealership – back then there were probably only like, three cars – but in this case, it makes sense. I mean, there were some I would never have considered going to. Like this, oh this one was… it was kooky, that’s the only way I could describe it. Felt like I got transported to another world! I didn’t fret too much, I had heard a _lot_ of stories about California before moving here, so I wasn’t totally unprepared. But this wasn’t your average meeting. At its core, though, they did talk about giving things up to a higher power… but it ran a bit _freaky_ for my tastes. I mean, how can you ‘consciously repair a human soul anyway’?”

Casting his gaze among the group, Cas expects another dead end. What nearly forces him to break character, however, was how one man’s lip snarled halfway through his story. Sat straighter in his seat while his hands balled into fists. The older man must have felt Cas’s stare because he looked up at him when he dropped the biggest clue.

“Sounds like a fucking scam job,” Victor says, drawing Cas’s focus, “if you ask me.”

Cas’s lips curve genuinely. “I thought the same thing.”

He lapses, having said what he needed. The rest of the meeting carries on uneventfully, with no one in particular speaking despite the woman who invited him in asking very pointed questions. Pumping the chest even though the heart monitor played a mortal beep since he walked through the door. At least he learns a few other names from the struggle, like the older man who resolutely won’t look at Cas since they locked gazes before. _Rufus_.

“Okay,” the woman claps after the sixth stilted response, “I think this about wraps up today’s meeting… we’ve got the room for another fifteen minutes if anyone would like to mingle. Again, I want to thank Cynthia and Victor for providing the donuts and coffee. You can still snag some on your way out. Remember, David, it’s your turn next week.” There’s a slight murmur that spreads throughout the crowd, but other than that they file out. Avoiding the half-filled snack table. Few people linger in the room. She stays, alongside Victor and another woman who Cas guesses is Cynthia since a flash of pride overcame her disease when their group leader mentioned the coffee.

Rufus circles it, alone.

Cas stands, readying an approach, when he’s ambushed. The woman leading this meeting strides towards him flanked by Victor. She holds her hand out, Cas politely accepting the handshake. “We didn’t properly introduce ourselves,” she tells him, “My name is Billie.”

“Jimmy,” he says, “Although you already knew that…”

“I did,” Billie nods. “How long have you been living in California?”

“Not too long. About three months.”

“Where’d you move to?”

“This little condo in Mer La Vista,” he says, “by the beach. Figured if I’d be here, I might as well get the full experience. Thought it’d be hard sleeping without the non-stop traffic, but ocean waves work just as well.” Victor scoffs, shaking his head. “I’m sorry… is there something wrong?”

“Probably not the ocean that’s putting you to sleep.” At Castiel’s perfected blank look of confusion, he elaborates. “There’s more dope in that town than air. Anyone who walks through comes out a little high. Those who live there… _always_ stoned.”

Rude, but not an inaccurate description. “Well that at least explains why there aren’t any AA’s in the area,” Cas says, “different vices, different needs.”

“Different needs, indeed.” Billie sighs, stepping closer. “Might I ask… do you feel that today’s meeting was the right fit for you?”

He answers honestly. “Don’t think the group felt too comfortable with a stranger barging in late.”

“No,” Victor says, “they didn’t feel too comfortable with a _white_ man in the room.”

“ _Victor_.” They both flinched, her voice brokering no argument. The target of her disappointment threw his hands up in surrender, leaving them and helping clean. Billie pinches her brow, chest expanding as she breathes in deeply. On the exhale, Cas sees she returned to a more pleasant demeanor. A hollow cheeriness, on further examination. She hides her exasperation with his presence much better than her friends. Leaders are most known for their diplomacy, which she exudes alongside confidence and strength. Billie is a commanding presence.

Which is why Cas won’t waste either of their time. “He’s not wrong, isn’t he?”

If startled, she doesn’t let is show past her amusement. “No,” she says, “but I would have put it another way.”

“Hey, no harm done,” he tells her, “I didn’t mean to step on any toes by being here. Not my intention.”

Billie nods, “Thank you. I’m glad you understand, it’s very important for us that we have this be a safe space for other black recovering addicts.” She gestures at the room, expression softening as she continues. “Me and Victor, we started this program because we noticed how other groups were failing our brothers and sisters. They were unsympathetic, and ignorant, to most of the problems they were going through. That gave context, why they did what they did. This community needed more understanding… so we filled that hole, and we’ve been hosting weekly meetings ever since.”

“That’s great,” he says, “Wish I knew from the start, though, I feel bad I messed up your rhythm by being here.”

“It’s not like we can exactly advertise it as such,” Billie shrugs, “if we put it out there that we were hosting an _all-black_ event every week, we’d have feds and racists breathing down our necks. They’ve already done enough damage to our cause, hurt a lot of good men and women…” She reaches back, adjusting the hair tie keeping her ponytail in check. “Panthers might be on the downswing, but we aren’t gone yet.”

Hearing this doesn’t shock him, having already suspected her involvement in the Party. While berets were quite fashionable, the black power fist button pinned on it signaled a more utilitarian meaning.

“I wish you all the best, then.”

“Same to you,” Billie says, “Hopefully you find a group that works for you.”

Cas hums, glancing at the snack table again. He hadn’t left. “I think I’ll grab some coffee before I go. Maybe a donut.”

“Have at it.”

Walking away from their conversation, Cas beelines for the table. Flashes a friendly grin at the older man when he grabs a cup. He scowls in response, sipping at his drink. “Good coffee?” he asks, pouring himself some.

“It’s shit,” Rufus growls, “like someone ashed a cigarette in it.”

Cas’s mouth thins at his review. He doesn’t falter, instead chuckling. “It’s a good thing we’re avoiding alcohol and not cigarettes, then.” Like in the group, his joke earns him no favors. “Right…” Cas brings the cup in for a swig, bitterness exploding. “Woah,” he coughs, drawing back, “needs some sugar.”

“Needs some _flavor_.”

“Maybe,” Cas says, dumping a scoop inside, “but I’m shit at making coffee myself, so I can’t judge. How are you?”

Rufus wryly raises his brow. “How am I what?”

“How are you at making coffee?”

“I don’t make coffee,” he says, “don’t even like it. Can’t stand the stuff.”

Cas pauses, spoon hovering over his cup. “If you don’t like coffee… why are you drinking it?”

“I needed to do something,” he shrugs, “’if I stood around doing nothing, they might ask me to help. And I don’t want to fold chairs that’re only gonna get _unfolded_ once the next group comes in. Pointless, if you ask me.”

“Hold on,” he drops the spoon, head skewed while he wraps it around the other man’s logic. “If you weren’t here for the coffee… why stay?”

“Because I was waiting on you.” He huffs, turning, “Don’t gawk boy, you look dumber than you already are.” The man carelessly dumps his half-filled coffee cup and heads towards the exit. “Come on,” Rufus calls, seeing Cas rooted to the spot, “I don’t have all day!”

Cas follows him into the hallway. A small and narrow thing barely kept lit by the twin sconces hung in the middle. Bulbs there dusty and dim. Rufus waits underneath one, lighting a cigarette. “So,” he starts, smoke trailing past his lips, “you got up close and personal with that cult now, did you?”

“A cult?” Cas asks, leaning against the other side. He infuses enough disbelief in his voice Cas almost convinces himself that label never crossed his mind. “What are you talking about?”

“Institute for Conscious Repair of the Human Soul? Ring any bells?” He taps some of his ash onto the floor, jabbing the air with his cigarette. “You seriously didn’t catch on in the first few minutes what their whole operation was really about? How stupid _are_ you?”

“’M not stupid…” Cas mumbles, “I just… sure, they seemed a little out there, I guess. But isn’t that how everyone in California is? And aren’t cults supposed to be more – more _dangerous_? Like Manson. Now _that_ was a cult. They looked like people who just wanted to help.”

“Help, sure…” Rufus drawls, a rough chuckle escaping, “at first, that’s what it looks like. Help you make _peace_ with the demons rattling around your skull. Only so they can fill it with their own kind. Mess up your thinking.” He flicks his cigarette onto the floor, squashing it under his boot. Tobacco stains the linoleum, streaked across when Rufus drags his foot back. “They _help_ the same way a fire helps a struggling business. Burn it all away, start over on _their terms_.”

Cas meets his hard stare, unshaking. “Sounds like you’ve had your own experiences with them, then.”

Rufus sniffs, wiping at his nose. “Yeah. Some time ago… ‘cept I wasn’t what they were looking for. A sucker _begging_ to be licked clean of all my sense. Though maybe that’s because I steered clear of all the drugs they were laying out.”

“Drugs? At a meeting for… _addicts_?”

“It was only dope,” he says, “but I bet there was something else, too. Dope don’t make you act all gooey, like they were. Like, uh…” Rufus stumbles over the next few words. He searches for another cigarette, sticks it in his mouth. Nothing else is done to it. Cas waits, unsure how he should continue. What he’s already been told was not enough. If he scratches too hard at the surface, Rufus might leave him with nothing but that first crushed stick. Luckily Rufus overcomes his block. “When you were at this meeting,” Rufus rolls the cigarette between his fingers now, “did you happen t’meet a man named Gordon?”

“Gordon?” Cas waits a beat, then says, “No, I don’t think so. Was he… someone you knew?”

Rufus sighs and rubs the back of his hand across his forehead. “Yeah, Gordon was my nephew. Only reason I know about that wacky group is ‘cause of him. Boy never was the best in making good decisions. Always getting into trouble…”

“Anyway, we hadn’t spoken since his last crazy stunt. I sure as hell was shocked to hear him ringing my line again, after I told him what would happen if he needed more bail. It wasn’t that though. Went on about going straight, thanking me for setting him on this path, and how he wanted to make it up to me by helping with _my_ problem. Invited me to the Institute, for one of their _special_ meetings. A cleansing, he called it.” He scoffs, baring his teeth in a deadly grin. “Sounded like some hippie shit I wanted no part of, but he was putting in the effort. Figured I might as well. But then I get there, and this knot forms itself, right here.” Rufus clutches at his stomach. “And it only gets tighter the longer I’m there. Figured it was from the hunger, part of that _cleansing_ was no food or water for the entire day. Listening to some Eastern shit that grated my fucking nerves and some guy in a crazy jacket spouting nonsense.”

“They didn’t let you eat?” Cas asks, “Sure am glad I didn’t go to a cleansing then.”

“From how Gordon put it, those were reserved for the most _faithful_ members,” he tells Cas, “and he had to ask permission from the cat running the whole thing –“ Cas leans forward, eagerly hoping Rufus lets a name slip. When, instead, he finally lights his second cigarette, Cas settles as he was. “Got a bed for me and everything – that’s another thing, they had members coming out of the walls! Like some sort of halfway house, all stacked on top of each other. Men and women, all naked and shit, living like animals! I sleep alone and that still ain’t enough space. Didn’t care that I was dizzy from hunger, I got in my truck and drove to the nearest burger joint then home for my own cleansing.” He shudders a harsh breath, cigarette lazily hanging from his mouth. “I knew whatever Gordon got himself into wouldn’t be easy to get himself out of, so I tried keeping tabs as best I could. But one day the entire group _disappeared_. No one knew what happened, or where they went. As if an entire group of people going _poof_ wasn’t the most interesting mystery they’ve got going on in their lives…” Rufus sucks on the cigarette, savoring the taste. “Which is why I wanna know how you went to a meeting.”

“Me?” Cas blinks, startled.

“Yeah,” He closes the distance between them. “Where’d you hear about them? Not like they’re big on advertising anymore… What with being _disappeared_ and all _._ ”

In that moment, a shred of memory wriggles up from the Earth and saves Cas from this confrontation. He plucks it, offering his excuse as a token of peace. “Actually, that _is_ how I heard about it. Advertising… I, uh – I was walking down the street and this girl shoves this flier in my face. I start chatting her up about the group because, well… she had these big tits, see,” Cas’s hands curl around the air in front of his chest, leering at Rufus. “And no bra. Didn’t particularly remember what she talked about, only that I agreed to go where she wanted. Gave me an address and I followed. Maybe if I had paid attention I wouldn’t have actually went.”

Rufus squints, mouth thinning. “You remember where that address lead?”

“Some house in the ‘burbs,” Cas waves off, “Don’t think it was a permanent address, though. At the end of it all, they were talking about where the next meeting’d be set up, but I dipped before any more chicks bamboozled me into wasting another afternoon.”

“Hmm…” Cas’s neck slinks backwards as Rufus peers closer, head aching from how it’s forced against the wall. Waiting while the older man digests his story. It sticks in his throat like bad phlegm. “Where’d you meet the girl?” he asks, “You can recall that, can’t you? Or is it just more boobies?”

His brows knit together, nerves settling as a wave of irritation rolls onto his shores. “Yeah, I can _recall_ that,” he growls, “Somewhere on Artesia, near this really big, abandoned building.”

“How big.”

“About five stories.”

Rufus pales, like if Cas reached forward and pulled so tight on his belt circulation were cut off to his legs. Except Cas’s hands remained trapped at his sides. He gives Cas space, sucking on his cigarette. “Damn… I kept going back there, time after time. How could they sneak in right under my nose?” A long drag that makes every wheel in Cas’s head stop turning. “Or maybe they never left… and it’s just been a _deeper_ con.”

Maybe, because Cas sure _feels_ conned. If what Rufus mutters mean what he thinks, then the abandoned building where Cas _knows_ is being used as cover for the government was originally the central point for a mysterious cult. It’s a pretty big jump. But Cas glides across that canyon like he has all the others, assured he isn’t filling in the blanks with paranoia-fueled conspiracies.

Unfortunately, waiting on the other side, were _more_ questions. And that fucking sucks.

He puts his own troubles on the back burner, worried since Rufus teeters in front of him. “Hey,” Cas says, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. Accepted, probably because he’s still shocked and didn’t realize Cas touches him. That won’t make Cas pull away. “Your nephew probably wasn’t at the meeting because he saw reason. Took him awhile… but he dipped and is finding his own way. I’m sure you’ll see him again.”

“Easy for you to say,” Rufus huffs, glancing up at him. Color returning to his skin. “You young men can hope like you can piss, eat, and fuck. I don’t think I’ve got any left in me.”

“I doubt that.”

“Fuck off…”

“No, really,” Cas says, hand dropping from Rufus’s shoulder, “you’ve still got enough gas in the mileage. Otherwise, why would you be here? At this meeting? Not for the coffee, certainly…”

Rufus chuckles, wiping at his mouth. “Definitely not.” Throwing down his nub, he makes an identical smear inches from the first one. “I gotta get out of here,” he says, “got a whole day filled with shit to do, can’t ignore everything because your motherfucking white ass can’t shut itself up.” He hurries towards the exit, Cas watching until the daylight on the steps fade and the door slams shut.

Alone, Cas pulls his earlier note out of his pocket. Uncapping the pen tucked near a hidden joint in his front shirt pocket, Cas scribbles a few words on the other side, unmarred by the church’s address. _Cult. Feds. Same building. CONNECTED?_ He then circles that last word until the ballpoint pokes through the other side and marks his palm. Hissing, Cas checks the accidental swipe. Blue ink and nothing else.

Cas leaves it.

He barely focuses on anything that wasn’t his thoughts as he makes his way from the hallway, swatting at them like flies. Buzzing about minute details he should have pressed Rufus on before he ran. If there were any teens at the meeting, or carnations? That damned flower asserted its importance numerous times, from the hippie chick to Roman’s file, and then the box in the precinct’s record room.

“Cas?”

His spine chills, and all the flies drop dead at his feet. He turns, finding Dean standing a few paces away. Wearing an expression of shock Cas is sure can be found on his own face. Looks like he didn’t follow him here. But running into each other on a random street in such a big city like theirs, that isn’t coincidence. Fate must be feeling a bit indignant at the moment. For whatever reason Cas cannot remember, probably because he was too high at the time.

They stare at each other for who knows how long, neither speaking after Dean said his name. Someone calls for Dean, though, snapping them both from their spell.

First thing he notices is a red beehive that reminds Cas of a volcano. Trailing his gaze downwards, he finds a pale, painted face under the explosion of hair, cheeks and lips an unnatural shade. Cas recognizes her immediately as the woman in the picture with Dean on his desk. Checking her ring finger, he sees the engagement ring. Although the stone wasn’t facing up, probably for the same reason she kept a death grip on Dean’s arm and had her purse bulging from underneath her shawl.

“Dean,” she repeats, “are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“He’s not my friend.” Cas didn’t expect anything less. Hearing it still _stings_. “He’s…” Wondering how Dean might explain their relationship keeps Cas on his toes, like whether the man who stabbed you will turn left or right. “He’s someone I met through work.” Dean’s mouth twists into a wobbly smile, shrugging. “Cas, this is Josie.”

“Josie,” Cas represses the curl of his lips, her name somehow bitter as he says it. “it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He holds his hand for her to take, which she does with a wry brow raised.

“Likewise. It’s not often I meet one of Dean’s colleagues on the force,” she giggles, studying his appearance. “Aren’t cops supposed to be… a little more clean-cut?”

“You’d be right,” Cas tells her, winking, “that’s why I’m not an officer.”

“Oh?”

“I’m a freelancer,” he explains after catching Dean’s wide eyes, “Dean and I’ve crossed paths on the beat.”

Josie nods, “I didn’t know there was such a thing as a freelance police officer?”

“We can do more than the regular cop, but it’s much more hush-hush. Sure… it’s not as flashy, but it’s good work.”

“Is that why you’re here?” she asks, whispering. Canines flashing in a wide smile, “Are you on a case?”

Cas glances between her and Dean. There’s a different sort of interest lying under the surface of his detective. While Josie waits for something like a primetime serial, Dean watches him with a smooth mask that belies fear. Afraid of what Cas might say, if he were feeling vindictive. He _could_ mention Jack’s disappearance and Dean’s involvement. Dean deserves some trouble of his own after causing Cas’s gray hairs to sprout too early. But seeing that fear reminds Cas of when they last parted, with Dean delaying America’s Red Coats and their questions.

Might as well be the bigger man.

“Something like that,” Cas admits with a casual shrug, “Following a lead, seeing how it pans out… I’m sure you’ve heard the same spiel from Dean.”

Josie scoffs, nudging her husband. “I wish. Never wants to discuss _anything_ with me.” She leans forward, hanging off of Dean’s arm now. “Police work, wedding planning… you wouldn’t _believe_ how difficult it was getting him to come along with me today. Just a few churches, that’s all… Fought the entire time.”

“I get it. If I ever were to get hitched, I wouldn’t waste my time on details like that.”

“Men,” she sighs, “if you were left in charge the time between a proposal and a marriage would be about as long as a commercial break!”

“So, is that why you’re here?” Cas asks them, “Looking at churches?”

“Yes!” Josie grabs at his wrist, dragging him closer. “Although we were just about to leave… we didn’t know this church was in such a – a _dangerous_ neighborhood, y’know?”

Cas follows her hawkish gaze as she peers at a young, black couple walking across the street. Minding their own business, talking about nothing that concerns their little party. Her grip tightens around him. “…You don’t say?”

Copper explodes across his taste buds, hidden by pursed lips.

“If you _are_ on the clock,” Josie sniffs, “you’re in the right place. There’s sure to be criminals here… definitely not a place to get married, wouldn’t you say?” She lets go of Cas, a false cheer returning. “When Dean and I _do_ make it official, we want our guests to feel comfortable. _Special_. There’s nothing special about this dump…”

Dean steps in, then, saving Cas from a terrible scene. “Hey, Josie,” he says, “why don’t you go wait in the car, yeah?”

“But Dean –“

“I want to discuss something with Cas,” he tells her, handing keys over without warning, “police stuff. Promise it won’t take long.”

She accepts his keys, brow arched all the while. “You promise?” Dean’s meek nod must satisfy her, somehow. “Okay,” she says, “I’ll be in the car. But _don’t_ keep me waiting Dean. Who knows _what_ can happen to a lady such as myself in a place like this.” Josie tugs hard on his sleeve, leverage so she can drop a kiss on his lips. Only Dean turns at the last second, and her lipstick smudges his cheek. Disappointment flashes across her face for a beat before she brushes it aside. “Well,” Josie continues in a more reserved tone, “it was nice meeting you.”

Cas, tired of all the lies, nods farewell.

The air thickens noticeably when she leaves. Dean and Cas drawn back into their own corners, waiting for the signaling bell. The other man has been occupying a lot of real estate in his head, squatting with the best of them. Testing the limits of Cas’s patience. There’s so much he wants to say it all bottlenecks at his throat. What slips through is the tip of the iceberg. “You’re gonna marry _her_?”

“Yeah, so?” Dean sits, hackles clearly raised. “I know marriage is like a mortal sin for you hippie types, but it’s what _real_ adults do.”

“So, you love her?”

Dean’s eyes flit past Cas, hazy. “We’ve been together long enough; it’d be weird if I didn’t…” _Telling_. “That don’t matter,” he coughs, shaking his head. “What’re you doing here?”

Cas jerks a thumb at the church, smirking, “Realized I was living in sin and decided I should go and confess at the nearest Heavenly Hotline?” His joke makes the other man’s lips purse, dimples appearing. A better reaction than what he’s gotten so far. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Dean. You’ll only get stupid answers.”

“ _Cas_.”

“Fine,” Cas groans, running a hand through his hair. Mussing the combed back locks so they curtain his ears instead of rest behind them. “Like I said to your soon-to-be, I was following a lead. Blindly, might I add. Although the payoff was pretty sweet…” Pugnacity steers his actions. Cas flaunts his joint, rolling it between his fingers while Dean watches. “You know what I heard? There’s this building – big, _abandoned_ but not really – and you know what it used to be? Some base of operations for this clinic. Real mouthful, let’s see if I can remember…” His lighter snaps open, flame kissing the twisted, paper tip. Cas breathes it in, stepping into Dean’s personal space. As he speaks the next few words, smoke curls around a blushing detective. “Institute for the Conscious Repair of the Human Soul?”

Dean stands firm, nostrils fluttering as he fights against Cas’s grass. “Really?”

“Though I doubt they’re going by that name anymore,” he says, “s’not _hip_ enough. Not _with it_.” Cas waits until Dean’s gaze locks onto his. “Do you have an idea what they’re going by now?”

“Wouldn’t know,” he says, “I never needed to repair my soul… consciously.”

“But you can ask the right people.” Cas pinches his joint, resting that hand holding it on Dean’s shoulder so the embers waft towards Dean still. “Your friends from the East? I’m sure they must have some secrets buried in their garden? Perhaps if you check the _carnations_ …”

Dean throws Cas’s hand off him, joint rolling free from the loose hold he had on it. Then he shoves at Cas, growling, “How many times do I have to tell you!” Defensively, Cas latches onto his shoulders while Dean does the same. They wrestle openly in the street, careless of the attention they garner. Bodies flush against one another. Curses muttered, stubble leaving visible burn marks. If there were less clothes, Cas might consider this a fun time. “You’re going to get yourself _hurt_!”

Finally, Cas hurls Dean off of him. Panting, he swipes at his mouth. “From who?” he asks, “Who, Dean? …You?” His silence is like a sucker punch. Dean trembles, glaring from his bowed position while Cas steams on ahead. “There’s more going on here and you _know_ it, Dean. You… how could you?”

“You don’t know _anything_ , Cas,” he hisses, “Trust me, if you knew –“

“About the missing kids, how they’ve been pushed under the rug?” Cas speaks over him, scowling, “About Project Carnation and whatever the _fuck_ that means? About the people who were taking advantage of addicts and turning them into a _cult_ before vanishing into thin _fucking_ air? A cult that, might I say, is _definitely_ part of this shitty, confusing web of mystery. Brainwashing these lost kids for whatever sick reason to do… do… I don’t know –“

“Where the fuck are you getting your information?” Dean scoffs, nary a trace of amusement clinging to his expression, “The voices that only show up when you’re tripping on acid?”

“Around!” Cas’s muscles stiffen, nails digging into his palms. “People… this guy I met at an AA whose nephew –“

“Jesus, Cas, do you hear yourself?” He mocks Cas, a vicious grin cracking his features. “ _A guy I met at AA_? That’s not evidence, that’s _stupid_.”

“It’s not –“

“It is.” Dean’s body unfurled, standing at full height. Anger seeping out from him like smoke from Cas’s joint. “You can’t believe anything a drunk says, I can tell you – from my _experience_ – they hardly know where the fuck they are. Never mind whatever shit comes out of their mouths.”

Thrill shoots up his spine with how Dean looks at him. Bolsters Cas while he further twists Dean’s nipples. “Experience? I doubt locking up boozehounds can count for _that_.”

“No? Then how about bailing one out?” His voice barely overpowers the everyday noise that filters through life. Cas strains himself while listening, silenced by the gravity threaded throughout Dean’s words. “Traveling with one who keeps promising how things are gonna change in the next town. That he’ll be better. Sitting up waiting into the night for one, hoping he’ll come through the door any second. Waiting with a toddler, thinking up excuses in case his crying brings over curious neighbors and we get forced apart once –“ Dean stops, gaze caught on Cas’s chest.

On the amulet that he wears. Stolen from _Dean’s_ desk and worn liberally since then. It must have slipped out while they were fighting. With Dean having seen, Cas knows it’s too late to hide it. That doesn’t stop him from tucking it away again.

A flip’s been switched. Dean gives Cas a wide berth, sweaty and pale. “You…” His finger wag was the least threatening thing Cas ever saw, inching out the rubber band-like bounce of his open jaw. He runs off without another word.

Cas stands there, adrenaline plummeting with every blink. As that happens, his senses return, too. He notices the stares he garners from the few pedestrians who stopped for their show. “And…” Cas throws his arms wide, bowing, “scene.” Cas heads for his car before their applause. Taking with him the sandbags filled with shit Dean left.

While idling at a red light, Cas rubs at the amulet. “Sure can ward off bad vibes when you want to,” he grumbles, “but this dark cloud hanging overhead might be too much for you.”

Luckily Cas knows someone who can help. He fights with his thoughts, keeping them at bay while instincts steer Cas to her apartment. Once parked, Cas peels off the stifling flannel, balling it up and shoving the shirt in his backseat. Cool air brushes at his skin as he jogs the short distance towards the phone booth.

“Come on,” he mumbles, tapping a discordant melody on glass walls. The ringing phone accompanying on with its shrill tone. No one picks up the first time. Second is much like the first. By the third, Cas gives up halfway through Meg’s voicemail. Drops the handset and bursts from out the folding door, dodging a Cadillac as he races for her door. “Meg,” he croons into the speaker, finger smashed on the buzzer, “Meg, baby, open up for me. It’s Clarence.”

Cas waits. Rewarded, moments later, when Meg’s voice crackles to life. “Clarence? Still there?”

“Yeah?”

“ _Leave_.”

“What?” he says, “No, Meg – it’s _me_.”

“I heard you.” Meg sighs through the intercom, Cas imagining the added breathiness. “But, listen, I’m in no mood for our usual game, dig? I’ve got a deadline to meet in an hour, and I’m still three-hundred words short. I either get it done or miss this week’s print.”

“Three-hundred words? I’ve seen you bang seven-hundred in fifteen minutes, baby.” Cas fiddles with the amulet, grinning, “Maybe if I were up there… you typing on that machine o’yours, and me – under the table – telling my own story…” His tongue slowly traces his bottom lip. “How does that sound?” Nothing. “Meg?”

“What are you really here for?”

“What?” Cas stutters a laugh, overly warm despite being bare-chested. “I’m – I’m here for you. You and your _sweet pussy_ , baby –“

“No, you’re not, Clarence.” Meg hums over the line, slipping into a softer tone. “You want something else, something I _ain’t_. Doesn’t matter how many times you rub my magic lamp though; your problems’ll still be there after you come. Try dealing with them first and then swing by again. A clear head does _wonders_ for your sex life I heard.”

“No, Meg –“ he shouts into the intercom, “Meg! Come back!” Cas keeps at her buzzer until, with buckling knees, he crashes. “Dammit,” he whispers, “Dammit…”

He cannot escape them now. Meg locked up in her tower. Joint forgotten in front of the church. Cas bows his head as the downpour begins.

* * *

After the day he had, Cas yearns for comforting darkness sleep provides. Except after the meeting with former alcoholics, with Dean and his fiancée, and with Meg, the sun has yet to bow out. Going strong, barely half past four. Cas scowls at the sun as he exits his car. Slams his car door and stomps away from it.

He’s not far from his apartment. Climbing the steps, Cas sees a figure waiting. Leaning on the bannister across from his door. Cas rubs at his eyes, convinced he must be hallucinating. Thoughts taking on human form after he spent the past few hours driving aimlessly around while his brain spun crazy theory after crazy theory about him. Each one made the little ticker beating inside his chest hurt more.

It’s not a hallucination. His blurred outline sharpens the longer he stares, Cas aware his imagination cannot recreate freckles, dark, under-eye circles, or dimples.

“Dean,” he says, startling the other man, “if you’re here for a fight I… I’m too tired.”

Dean nods, wringing his hands. “I’m not looking for a fight either. I’m… I think it’s time we talked.”

Cas briefly weighs his options. He shuffles forward, uncaring how he bumps into Dean. “High time,” he says, flinging open his door. “Make yourself at home, I guess. Mi casa es su casa…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week - we'll get a little insight about Dean! Who else is excited, huh?


	8. watch out for sammy

Cas hears Dean close the door behind him, even with his head buried in the fridge. “You want anything?” he asks, rummaging around for a quick snack. Between spoiled milk and a half-empty ketchup bottle, his hand wraps around something crinkly. Pulling it out, he sees it’s a half-eaten burger that’s been stored away. He tears at the paper, sniffs it, and then takes a tentative bite. Nothing makes him gag, so he continues chewing.

Dean doesn’t answer all the while. Turning, Cas finds his attention diverted elsewhere. Mainly on the glassware proudly standing on his coffee table with papers, grass, and other paraphernalia scattered around bits of junk Cas left and never returned to.

He swallows another mouthful, chuckling. “I guess I could load up a bowl,” he says, “but I thought you said you wanted to talk…?”

Blushing, Dean undoes and then rebuttons his jacket. “I’m good,” he says, “I don’t… I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.” Cas finishes his burger, wiping its grease on his jeans. “Hope you don’t mind if _I_ partake some…?” Without waiting, Cas grabs a pinch of grass and spreads it across an empty paper. Rolls the joint and slowly licks along the edge, gaze never breaking from Dean’s. The other man watches intently, pupils dark while following the drag of Cas’s tongue. When done, Cas blindly reaches for his nearby lighter. As he flicks it on, the spell over Dean breaks.

“I mind,” he says, “but I doubt you’ll stop on my account.”

“You know me _so_ well.” Cas kicks off Bobby’s boots, sinking into his couch. Resting his feet on the cluttered coffee table, he takes a drag from his latest joint. “So, you just gonna _hover_ there disapprovingly, _detective_ , or get started with your story?” He pats the empty space beside him. “If it’s a long one, you might wanna get _cozy_.”

Dean spins the dial on his glare, disgust intensifying with each click. “Thanks, but I’d rather stay… _downwind_ of you.”

“Fine by me.” Cas closes his eyes, inhaling more smoke. Relaxing with its aid, the effect quickly overtaking him. Melts the tension hidden in pockets around his body; ferrets out the bad vibes, replacing them with more peaceful energies. A piece of negativity continually annoys him, shrapnel of it stuck near his heart. When he opens his eyes, Cas finds Dean staring. Different from his others, green clouded and hazy. An innocence lost within the fog edging through green trees. Worried, Castiel runs his hand across the scraggly expanse, fingers bumping into thin leather.

The amulet.

“I thought I’d lost it,” he says, quietly, “or worse…”

Cas sighs, tugging the amulet free from his neck. He tosses it to Dean, other man catching in one swift motion. “Wouldn’t peg you for someone who put stock in trinkets like that. Seemed too _hippie_ for your tastes.”

“Well, you’re right,” Dean tells Cas, donning the amulet. His head bows slightly in examination, gently brushing a thumb across its features. “But I didn’t pick this out. Was a _gift_.”

“A gift?” A strange feeling washes over him, like standing on the beach at the beginnings of a storm. Waves crash onto the shore at a distance, dark clouds on the horizon. In the next hour those grey puffs shoved their way over clear blue, ocean following their wake. Only fools remain, then, uncaring how saltwater rushes over their shins in places she could hardly reach earlier.

Cas folds his cuffs with practiced ease.

“Who from?”

Dean smiles, one not catalogued in Cas’s mind. He looks years younger, resembling the boy in the ancient photograph better. Unburdened by life, lost in a blissful reel of memories. _Beautifully free._ Warmth from the joint drips down from his mouth, settling somewhere in the lower half of Cas’s stomach. “My brother,” Dean says, “Sammy.”

_Sammy_. “Cute name.”

“Right? He never liked it, though.” Dean snorts, “Always felt it was a baby’s name. _Sam_ was a man, while Sammy was a chubby-cheeked boy who needed someone to hold his hand while crossing the street.” His smile faded, sobered by a creeping shadow dimming his features. “Used to run without looking both ways, ripping himself free at every chance and oh how I’d chase… Sammy never liked being held back, should’ve known from then –“

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts, flippantly waving his hand around, “is this what you came here for? To tell me about your _brother_?”

Dean, jolted from his memories, quickly remembers where he was. He arches a stern brow at Cas, mouth thinning into a harsh line as he pockets the amulet. Detective Winchester returns. “I _came_ to tell you about the case, about my involvement with it.”

Cas nods and taps the unlit end of his joint against his chin. “And your brother?”

“Is part of it.”

Surly waves strike higher than he expected, hitting his waist. He chokes on his next drag, coughing up grass smoke while bent over his knees. Stares at his toes while recovering from the shock, of Dean’s casual admittance. “What?”

“You heard me,” Dean growls, “my brother… he’s mixed up in this whole…” He sighs, hands violently thrown up, “this whole fucking shitstorm that’s been eating at more of my life than it should be.”

Cas lifts his head, stubbing the joint out in a nearby ashtray. Any chance at it being useful was snuffed alongside it. There’s no point ignoring a dog if it keeps on howling, anyhow. “I think I’m gonna need you to start from the beginning.”

Dean winds back towards a point Cas wasn’t expecting. “About six months after Sam was born, we lost our mom to a fire.” The lump of an apology sits in his mouth, unspoken. Given the detached tenor of his voice, like reading a list of aggrieved violations, Cas guesses it’s a story he’s told many times before. Enough that the tragedy became tiring. No one likes hearing sorry for an already healed wound, especially if they’re badly scarred. He swallows the reflexive politeness. “It was deemed an accident, but my old man wouldn’t hear a word of it. Stubborn bastard got it in his head that someone killed her…”

“Well,” Cas snorts, smile ghosting across his lips, “what would a father be if he weren’t a little _obstinate_.”

“Then mine must have been the King of all Fathers,” he says, “because his obsession with this ‘ _supposed killer_ ’ took us across the fucking country!” Dean rubs at his jaw, boring a hole into an empty pizza box abandoned by Cas’s coffee table. “Do you know what it’s like growing up in a wagon? Living in motel rooms where the most alone time I got was fetching ice? Chasing after ghosts, uprooted constantly because dad ‘caught a _lead_ about where he _went_ ’. Sure… not because it’s hard holding down a fucking job when you’re six sheets to the wind and counting…” His explosion near the church begins making more sense.

“Dean,” Cas stands, walking towards the other man. His arms raised soothingly, a gesture of friendliness in lieu of a white flag. “Hey… I think you’re veering off the road there,” he says. Tentatively he rests his hands on Dean’s shoulders. When Dean doesn’t retaliate, Cas guides him to where he sat. “Come on,” Cas whispers, kneading at the tense muscles under his suit jacket. “Take a few breaths, now.” And, as he couldn’t resist. “Maybe on some grass? My offer still stands, if you’re interested… it’ll definitely help.”

Finally, he bats Cas off him, “No, then I’ll never get to the point.” Pouting, Dean carefully avoids his eyes as he shrugs. “Thoughts get pretty muddled after reefer… all that comes out of my mouth is nonsense.”

The surprises keep coming. If Cas isn’t careful, the tide will sweep him far out on the sea with no hope of finding shore ever again. “You’ve smoked?” Unlike when Dean interrogated Cas, there’s no edge infused in the question. No thought of teasing the other man. Only genuine curiosity.

This time, it’s rewarded. “I was a teenager, y’know,” Dean scoffs, “with too much shit on my shoulders. If I wanted to not think about it all for a while I… I’d bum a special ciggie every now and then, when I could, from passing beatniks. Didn’t make a habit out of it.”

“Clearly.”

“But it got the job done…” He shakes his head, clawing at his necktie. Loosens it somewhat, enough for the top button to pop open. Dean looks a fraction more comfortable than he did entering, but even the slightest concession of his armor marks a tally in Cas’s corner. “Anyway, where was I?”

“You were on a tangent about your awful father,” Cas says.

“Right.” Dean scowls, strangling the length of his tie in a trembling grip. “So, my dad’s a piece of work, but I managed best I could. Sammy on the other hand… was kinda like you. Bucked the old man’s authority whenever he had the chance, pushed to see what he could get away with, and always had a smart answer ready even if it’d only get him into more trouble than he would’ve without it.”

Cas frowns and folds his arms over his chest. “Is that what you think of me?”

“Am I wrong?”

“No,” he sighs, “but I’ve much more depth than a… a… a reoccurring _pimple_!” Poor comparison, albeit the best he can gather under such strange conditions. Concern for the infuriating detective coaxes a gentler touch from Cas.

“Sorry,” Dean rolls his eyes, “I didn’t realize getting high went from being a hobby to a personality trait…”

He rubs his knuckle at the space between his brows, humming a sour note. Dean makes being nice so _damn_ difficult. “Your brother,” he growls, aggravation waning while he ignored another exit off the highway of Dean’s past. “He and your father got into fights?”

“All the time,” Dean says, “especially towards the end. Seemed like every little thing would set one off, then the other… and no matter what I tried there was no making peace with either of them. But finally Sam storms through the door too early in the morning, slamming a piece of paper down and going off about new experiences, freedom and…” He slides his hand off the tie, down his chest, and onto his waiting knee. Pressing on it, keeping him from bouncing. “It was an acceptance letter. For college. That… that was one of the scariest moments of my life. Dad nearly had an aneurysm… Sam wouldn’t listen to reason… second dad started raising his voice, he – he just took off. Figured he needed some air; Lord knows the friction in the room made for some awful breathing. I’d’ve gone after him ‘cept dad were looking so cross-eyed I was afraid what might happen if I moved even an inch.” Dean’s twang makes his story sound like a country classic strummed achingly slow on a beat-up Gibson. Cas, not overly fond of the genre, taps his foot along to the tune.

“But he was gone for too long. I was getting antsy, ideas popping up in my head that got more awful as the day wore on. Dad, still fuming, ordered me to quit worrying. ‘Cept I couldn’t, I just wanted to go out and find him. When it was time for bed, that’s when I… digging in my duffel. And his duffel – his duffel…” He chokes on that word, coughing. Dean wipes at barely formed tears. “I hadn’t noticed earlier but I should’ve… it was… Sam’s wasn’t there. He didn’t leave with it so it must’ve been gone earlier, meaning – well, you probably already guessed. I couldn’t… he didn’t even tell… Anyway, dad noticed, too, and…” Dean trails off, swallowed by his suit jacket as he curls forward. His clipped breathing one of many bad omens. He must have been dangling on the edge of this since the beginning, but Dean couldn’t pull himself onto solid ground.

Lucky Cas is there to catch him.

“Hey,” he touches Dean again. Another brush of fingers on Dean’s shoulder, bending so Cas’s lips were inches from his ear. “You’re not back there. You’re here, in my apartment… with me.” A wry smile slashes through the fondness oozing out his whisper, concealing most of it before Dean’s searching gaze found Cas. “Albeit, not like how I imagined. Too many clothes, certainly…”

This time, as Dean brightly flushes, he makes no move of distancing himself from Cas. “You don’t mean that,” he mumbles, “I’m just another lousy cop.”

“You weren’t always.”

That came from nowhere. It came from somewhere, within Cas. A hidden well he hides all he cannot face. But it also, absolutely, came from _nowhere_.

While Dean’s mind definitely strayed from panic, it journeyed down a path neither he nor Cas were prepared for. Inappropriateness was a familiar friend. This instance, Cas treats it like a stranger. Passing them by on the street despite how ferociously they wave at him.

“So,” Cas coughs, grip tightening across Dean’s shoulder, “your brother went to college? Did you fly the coop not long after?”

“As if.” Dean sighs, “Stuck around with the old man for another tour or two. Every time I thought about leaving, I’d just… remember that night. Not getting a goodbye… how bad I felt and, no matter how he tried hiding it, how broken dad was, too. The drinking got worse after that, and it’s not like the fella could survive on his own. So, I picked up the slack. Felt nice knowing _someone_ needed me. Worked a few jobs here and there in every new town we stopped in. Road trips were few and far between in those days, thought we could actually settle down for real. But then, on a morning just like when Sam left…” Dean reaches for Cas, sliding his hand over where Cas’s rests. Shudders deeply while fingers splay over Cas’s skin. “For all the anger and fighting, Sammy and dad were a lot alike. Makes sense they’d both want to ditch me, too.”

For once, Cas resists his impulses. Of throwing his arms around Dean, dragging him from the couch and into his room; cocooning themselves from all that troubled them until Cas laid every piece of skin Dean flayed in this makeshift therapy session where it belonged. A good idea that would only delay them further from the point Dean promised at his arrival. He can sense that if they drove onto this highway’s shoulder, they’d never reach their destination.

Dean carries on, unaware of Cas’s struggles; ensnared in his own. “I woke up and he wasn’t there… Figured, maybe he passed out at a bar or… got locked in a drunk tank. Pretty regular habit for him, 'specially near the end. But as the day went on, he didn’t show. Didn’t get any phone calls, either. When I checked the bar, he wasn’t there… the police hadn’t seen him. I went back to the motel and, like with Sammy… the duffel –“ Sniffling, Dean’s hand slips off of his. “Didn’t know what I should do with myself, then. Time all… blurred together. Stopped goin’ to work… eating… nothing seemed worth doing. There were stretches of days where I could barely get off the bed.” Darkness edges around Dean’s gaze, scaring Cas. They simmer threateningly. “All of that made the motel manager angry, though. Ran out of money for the room and practically forced me from his property. While I was gathering my things – he… he threw them every which way, I came across this picture of us. Probably the last picture we took when we… when we were a _normal_ family.” Cas thinks back on the faded photograph Dean hid in his drawer. The thought of it brings much needed light into his eyes. “Ma was dead and dad? Why would I want to chase after him anyway? Sammy, though… I’m supposed to look after the kid. Even if he don’t want me to. I’d been doing it all my life but somewhere along the way I lost sight of it. Until that day. That picture anchored me it – it gave me a _purpose_ again. So, the first thing I needed doing was to find Sammy.”

“Next stop, California?”

“Not exactly,” he says, “I didn’t have the first clue where he was. Never got the name of his college, and by the time I actually _started_ looking for the kid he would’ve been out of there…”

That begins Dean’s tale of his _solo_ trip around America. A man on a mission, only staying until he heard the whispers of a rumor or an old memory resurfaces and guides him elsewhere. Cas listens while Dean glosses through the bullet points. Hitchhiking in the beginning until he saved enough money for a rust bucket van that gave him wheels _and_ a place to rest, motels eating too much of his shoestring budget. Trolling campuses, digging through records for a trace of Sam. Hearing the lengths Dean went for his brother encouraged a ghost of a smile. Hidden as Cas leaned back on his hands, sitting on the floor after standing became too tiring. Enraptured by how electric Dean looked recounting a run-in with campus police.

“Of course, with hunting for Sammy as my main focus, I let certain things run wild without my knowledge. Like my hair…” Dean ran careful fingers through his overly gelled locks, grimacing as they crunch. “I got my fair share of harassment from the locals… and the police… thinking I was some laze-about looking to score or cause some ‘ _civil unrest_ ’.”

“Now I would have loved to meet that Dean,” Cas chuckles, nudging Dean’s ankle with a pointed toe, “hippie in the making!”

“As if.” Dean shifts from Cas’s prodding, frowning down at him. “There were more obstacles than I realized… and about a year of searching, turning up nothing… I started losing hope. Then, I saw it.”

While loitering along one of the main roads in a quaint, little hamlet, Dean happened across a store with a wall of televisions blocking the window. All of them were on and tuned into a station where some stiff droned about the latest news rocking the country. That day’s story was about a high-profile case that played out like some Spanish soap. At the center of this drama was a young defense attorney, holding his own against a cabal of seasoned professionals. Dean beamed while mentioning the rising star, pride tugging the corners of his lips farther up.

Cas wonders why he spent more time talking about the defense than other aspects of the case. Every day, when more was revealed, the entire trial became crazier and crazier. At points Cas figured Serg tampered with his gas for free. But Cas recalls how Dean came upon this topic, and it clicks. “Wait,” he stutters on a gasp, “Your brother… _he_ was the lawyer?”

“Goin’ by a different name at the time but, yeah…” Dean pressed his face against the glass for a better look, drooling on the surface as the shock paralyzed the simplest of functions. Only able to watch Sammy – ‘ _Sam Campbell he was calling himself… of all the things he could’ve chose_ ’ – stun a courtroom as he presented a terrifying series of events while the man on the stand weathered each, truthful blow. “That was my light in the tunnel… didn’t matter the shopkeeper chased me off with a broom not soon after, I knew where I had t’go.”

Cas hums, “It shouldn’t have been too difficult, his face was _everywhere_.”

“You’d think,” Dean sighs, “except I must have pissed off someone powerful. I saw that while bumming around _Maine_. Two states into my journey, my car breaks down. And then I’m waylaid _six months_ because a town I hitchhiked into was one that had a bad past with my old man.” He tips his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Being his son, they made me work off his debts.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“You’re telling me,” he says, “they had me doing the worst jobs. Like, bottom of the barrel. And constantly they’d have a cop with me at all times, watching me. In case I ran off ‘ _like my dad_ ’.” The air quotes startled a rare snort from Cas. “But if it weren’t for that, I don’t think I’d’ve had the idea of joining the force once I made it here.”

“Really,” Cas scoffs, “didn’t peg you for the type who got off on all that stuff…”

“It wasn’t that,” Dean tells him, bringing one foot up. Resting it on the coffee table. His arm slides over the back of his sofa, thumb circling an old stain. “The cops in town, I got to know them pretty well. The whole watchman thing kinda went both ways… and I saw how good they were treated. The power of the badge, how it can cut through a lot of the bullshit ordinary folks put up with. A man with a gun walks into a store? Trouble, probably scared of every little thing he’d do. But if he has a badge? No one’d bat an eye. That stuck with me, but I didn’t really think more about it ‘till I hit a roadblock when finding Sam.”

“What happened?”

“No one’d let me see him!” Dean’s head rolls, chin settling on his chest as he faces Cas. “I tried his office, no one’d say a peep. Calls were left unanswered and he never followed up. Wasn’t able to run into him by accident. I knew I’d need a little grease on the wheels if I were gonna get my meeting with Sammy. Becoming a cop seemed like the right idea at the time. Lawyers and cops work together on occasion.”

Cas sees no fault in that reasoning. However, “officers and _defense_ attorneys rarely see eye to eye.”

“Like we never got into our fair share of scrapes…” Dean says, the crease between his brows returning. “Although by signing up, I figured why it was so hard getting Sam to fit me in his schedule. It was probably a few months into being assigned a beat, after we met actually, that I ran into someone who knew him.”

A lawyer from the same firm Sammy worked at. Tyson Brady. Dean snuck his brother into the conversation, asking about the ‘famed lawyer’ in the news. “Well, you know what they say about the brightest of stars,” Tyson joked, crushing his empty water cup and tossing it into the nearby trash.

“Apparently, he had some sort of nervous breakdown and quit the firm.” Dean says, clawing at Cas’s couch now. “Left his wife, too. Dropped off the map, and no one from his former life heard a _peep_ from him.”

“Sounds as if your brother has a nasty habit of dropping out.” Cas shrugs off the other’s glare, fully reclining on the floor. Splayed like a starfish. “If he uprooted, why didn’t you follow?”

“It’s… it’s like this,” he starts, “Even though there was nothing _telling_ me he was in the area I – uh… I had this _gut feeling_ he was still around. Somewhere. Even though I was back to square one, in a way, I knew if I kept at it here – kept my ear to the ground – we’d find each other.”

“And you did.”

“Not how I expected, though,” Dean says, “with how talented he was practicing law, you’d think he would be better staying out of trouble.”

A group of protestors were brought in, filtered through the system while being processed. Long-haired types who caused a ruckus by gathering outside a restaurant hosting some white-collar event. Yelling, screaming – actions incongruent with their peaceful appearance. And preaching many of the same buzzwords Cas has heard floating around these past few weeks.

“It was brief,” he recalls, “I was passing through the pen while he talked with one of his arresting officers. He looked _completely_ different from the guy on tv. Almost didn’t recognize him, at first, actually. But then he looked my way and I just… I knew it was him.” Dean sighs, “Then, when I _collected_ his report – saw his name there – I was sure. Only he’d already been processed out by the time I got my hands on the damn paper.”

“I doubt you let that stop you.”

“No. There were other nifty things in that paper, like the address of the building he was staying at –“

“Let me guess,” Cas says, rising, “it’s that same building you and I were camped outside of. The one that _used_ to belong to that cult but is now housing a different, _scarier_ bunch of mind-controlled zombies.”

Dean scowls at him, colorful imagery unappreciated. He doesn’t fall for the bait, instead continuing with his story.

“I hung around, whenever I could, hoping we could run into each other. But the kid was so _popular_ I’d hardly see him alone. About the time I was readying myself to just go _inside_ the creepy building, the moment I was waiting for happened. And I made sure I wouldn't waste the opportunity.”

Cas shuffles to the sink while Dean sets the next scene. Grabs a cup with leftover drink still inside while Dean describes how seeing Sammy felt, dumping it as he glossed through the effort of convincing him to share a quick bite, and then fills it with water he greedily drinks while Dean complains about the eatery Sam chose.

“Some hippie setup I felt way too overdressed for,” he muses, tugging on his tie, “but Sammy seemed five seconds away from bolting, so I had to weather it.”

“And they say the word ‘hero’ doesn’t mean much these days…”

“We didn’t order anything but drinks, and no one spoke for the first few minutes. I mean, what could I say? Hey, you thought you got rid of me but turns out I’m a persistent piece of gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe – even though it looks like you don’t wear _those_ anymore, too!” The rambling joke falls flat for both of them, Dean’s voice trailing off. He’s planted both feet on the ground again, and pulled his arm down so he can twiddle his thumbs.

“So,” Cas prompts, placing a now empty glass on the counter, “who fired the first shot?”

Sammy did.

He asked if John, their father, knew Dean was there. Dean told him explicitly how that relationship played out after Sammy left. Hearing that Dean came unattached, Sammy brightened up. “Afraid I’d come to drag him back on the road, looking for ma’s killer. That dad needed help… but no. Once we buried that, the conversation got better. Back and forth, filling in the blank spaces on what happened. He told me about college – Stanford, that was the place. Been in California this whole time. College, law school… law _career_ … and when we met up, a ‘spiritual counselor’.”

“I didn’t know Stanford specialized in that type of discipline, but I guess everyone’s getting with the times…”

“I _wish_ ,” Dean scoffs, “It was this bullshit term Sammy’s program used for people who left everything behind in _service_ of joining the – the, uh…”

“The _cult_?”

“Yeah…” Dean’s face hardens, looking like a rocky cliffside. Liable for some serious damage towards anyone stupidly brave enough to climb it. Cas figures his hands were due for some scrapes, anyhow. “I couldn’t avoid it any longer I… I had to know how he got mixed up in this sort of thing. He was a smart kid. Knew there wasn’t a Santa or a Tooth Fairy at a young age… not the type to be fed cow patty and think it’s rhubarb pie!”

The colloquialism tickles Cas quite fiercely, a few snickers escaping. Dean doesn’t notice thankfully.

“That big case that got him a lot of fame _also_ opened a gate from Hell.” Fame brought both fans and enemies. People who wanted the same Oscar-worthy performance even if the material was lackluster. Those who claimed Sam stole the case from them, used their notes. Or lied for sensationalism or whatever... and that the case should be retried. It became too much, and Sam picked up a nasty habit from their dad’s. “Got to the point where he’d be blitzed by dawn. Everyone could tell what was happening. His boss’s ordered him to clean up his act or he’ll be thrown on his ass.”

“And out of all the dry houses he chose, Sammy picked The Institute for Conscious Repair of the Human Soul?”

Dean nods. “Being there… changed him. Made him ‘realize’ law wasn’t what he should be doing, but _that_. Helping people recover from the pain of the past. Heal the hurt without booze. Which, y’know, was _admirable_ , but when he started digging into some of the stuff they specialize in, I didn’t see it as the paradise Sammy did. Still... he asked if I wanted to come back and sit in on a session… Thought I'd change my mind if I could _see_ what what the community was all about.”

Cas understands without needing Dean to say it. “Your meeting was less reunion, and more recruitment.”

“He said we were both hurt by dad, in different ways,” he growls, lips quivering, “but we can both make peace with our demons by giving all our burdens to the mastermind of Sammy’s new spiritualism. This grifter going by ‘The Great Prophet’. The guy who conned my brother into abandoning his work, leaving his fiancée, and pouring all his money into the cause…”

“You two got into another fight?”

“I wish,” Dean says, “but Sammy was so whammied by that cult, he didn’t _believe_ in anger. Called it as toxic as booze. Even though the Sammy _I_ know could whip into a storm so fierce only suckers’d get in his way…” He reaches into his pocket, for the amulet. Dangles it high above his bowed head. “As he’s leaving, Sammy takes this from around his neck and forces it into my hand. A gift from that Prophet guy when he first appeared in the room, looking lost and doubtful. Man took Sammy aside and put that around his neck, saying how he knows there’s something greater meant for him if he lets his love fix all the broken parts inside. A symbol of his everlasting and undying love for his children… Sammy told me that same greatness is waiting for me, a greatness we can share, if I just allow myself t’stop being so scared of being happy. Let myself _feel_ the love. Then he waltzed out of there without another word.”

Cas searches for the perfect way he can convey his thoughts that don’t offend Dean. He can only think of one word, “Bummer.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, “real bummer. Thousands of miles to see that I’ve already _failed_.”

“I wouldn’t put it like that…”

“And the hits kept coming,” Dean talks over Cas, steamrolling, “I gave Sammy a few days. Or rather… I needed them. Coming up with anything I could use to convince him t’let me help. When I drove by the building though it – uh… they cleared out.”

“That fast?” Cas asks.

“Not a trace.” Dean tugs the amulet’s cord, hiding it in his fist. “No one knew where they went, even the force had nothing. But if it meant less hippies on the streets they didn’t care. I kept at it. Asked and asked until some of the captains were getting _too_ suspicious…”

“Were they scared you thought about jumping ship?”

“Something like that. Had a few meetings here and there with HR, interrogations in all but name… made me pee in a cup, too. Routine drug testing.” Cas walks over, sitting next to Dean; knees pressed against each other. “Knew I’d have to keep things close to my chest if I wanted to survive. Adapt, throw off their doubts.” He looks up at Cas, then, with a crestfallen expression. It reminds Cas of the officer he met in a dark alleyway, nice despite what the world threw at him. Surfacing as an apology for being sacrificed in Dean’s mission.

There’s much left unsaid before he can begin the process of forgiveness. “You hoped the cops could help, then? Even after Sammy left?”

Dean shrugs. “I mean, yeah he was gone. But something told me he didn’t go far. Again. And I was right when those Feds rolled in.”

Months after Manson ruined hippies’ peaceful reputation, the government sent over a few envoys looking into any activity that mirrored his. Dean, rising earlier than the sun, overheard agents discussing one group they were looking closely into called the Children of the Carnation.

“As in ‘Operation Carnation’?” Cas guesses, Dean’s subtle nod a great sign. His insight was the missing piece, slotting together with the other pieces Cas collected in record speed.

“They might have rebranded, but I knew it was them,” Dean explains, “except instead of chasing addicts they were going after an even more impressionable group…”

“ _Teenagers_.”

“Yeah,” he says, “them. I heard all I needed. Next thing I knew I was talking to my boss about becoming a detective, doing anything I could for that promotion.”

“So you could be let in on the Fed’s secrets?”

“So I could save Sammy before they could get their hands on him.”

Cas’s stomach curdles. It was obvious what Dean’s motivations were – had been repeating them near constantly since his story began – but hearing it again turns everything sour. Gives the previous mention about the lengths he’d go for his brother a darker edge. “And what about the kids?” Cas levels a fierce glare at the detective, “Were they important?”

“They’re kids,” Dean waves off Cas’s question, “All they wanted were the heads of this organization. Since Sam could probably be counted as part of that Prophet guy’s inner circle, I knew the target was on his back.”

“And you’re doing a terrible job of getting it off his, I see.”

Dean scowls at him. “We’re doing the best we can, okay? No matter how much information we collect, how much of the group’s literature we gather, we still don’t know where they’re based. No matter how many kids we let them grab –“

“You what!” Cas stands, embers of his fire stoked by Dean’s admission. “You’re _letting_ them _take_ all these people?”

He doesn’t flinch at Cas’s pitched voice, staring firmly ahead. “Those are the orders,” he says, “we stalk the usual hangouts, watch, follow, and report back our findings. Hoping that sooner or later some parent will come in about their missing kid and we have due cause to send in a unit. So far those tactics have been shit, but Ketch and Davies are leading the charge. Can’t get them to budge on _anything_.”

“What about the _actual_ missing kids, then?” Cas hisses, spit raining down on Dean’s stiff hair, “Do you cast them aside? Do nothing?”

“If they don’t fit the profile they’re shuffled along, and not my problem anymore,” Dean says, jumping up as well. Teeth bared defensively. “Look, things fall through the cracks. I knew that without having to join the fuckin’ unit. I’m only doing what I can –“

“But you can be doing more,” Cas shoves him, “you know better, yet you allow others to control how you act?”

Dean raises his arms, readying a response. Cas braces for an impact. Oddly, nothing comes. His arms hang limp, fight bleeding out his frame. “Fine,” he says, “you want to call me the bad guy? Go ahead. Because I am. I’m bad – a _bastard_. A screw-up. Everything I do is _shit_ , and the _only_ good thing in my life is out there doing God knows what because I _fucked_ up _once_. Because _that’s_ all it takes. Now I told you all this because – for some reason – I thought you could help. Not to judge me. Which, by the way, is a fucking laugh!”

Cas squares his jaw, squinting, “How so?”

“I’m supposed to believe you give a damn about those kids we’re not finding, whether they’re in the cult or elsewhere,” Dean chuckles, grating on Cas’s nerves, “you’d still be in the dark on this if your friend hadn’t been one of the sheep they herded!”

In all his fury, Cas was blind for how much of what was whipped up were smoke. Because Dean clears that into the ether, leaving a smoldering brush. Observation cuttingly truthful. Jack’s disappearance was a key that opened a chest of memories Cas thought he buried deep in his past. Of things he thought wouldn’t hurt anymore.

But knowing that your absence meant nothing – that hardly anyone cared you left – was a heavy wound to recover from. Some of these missing kids had people who _were_ worried for them. The longer they went without being found, the more they believe they don’t.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t have,” Cas tells him, startling Dean, “but now I do. This isn’t just about Jack anymore, Dean. All those kids – you think the feds are gonna care who they’re gonna have to mow down to get to their targets?”

“Which is why I need to find Sam before they do,” Dean insists, stepping into Cas’s personal space, “look, I’ve been making terrible calls all my life… at least I’m trying to do the right thing here, with my brother.”

“No, you’re not.” Cas drifts backwards, sullenly, “you’re trying to ease your guilt from the path your _brother_ chose. Saving him won’t absolve you of your own sins.”

They stand across from each other, neither satisfied with how this conversation concluded. And while hearing that Dean’s involvement with Jack’s disappearance wasn’t the sinister imaginings his mind created, the messy truth leaves him as unsatisfied. Doubly disappointed.

Suddenly, ringing breaks through their staring contest. Cas flinches, muttering a curse through clenched teeth. He spares one final glance at Dean before reaching for his phone. “You got Cas?”

Brusque, but thankfully Claire doesn’t focus on it. Too busy giving him information, and an ultimatum. Already at his limit after dealing with Dean, he pinches his brow. Sighing, Cas agrees to her terms and hangs up.

“Who was that?”

Dean slithered closer while he was distracted, hand drifting by Cas’s elbow. Almost touching, not quite. Eyes hard in a fashion fitting if Dean hadn’t flayed himself open in his apartment. His rushed stitchwork cannot hide the few extra pieces of skin that still linger around them.

Cas has two choices he can make. While all evidence says he should pick the rational choice, he raises his middle fingers at those orders. Lets his heart decide.

He skirts past Dean and grabs his half-finished joint, lighting it again. “You in the mood for a party?”


	9. i want to break free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - I meant to post this yesterday, but work piled up so I couldn't get a chance to give this a second glance. And then I figured YESTERDAY would be so crazy that it's probably best I wait -
> 
> And I was RIGHT!!!
> 
> Canon DESTIEL folks! We manifested one 'I love you' let's manifest the other!

Cas keeps his eyes focused on the road, driving while Dean fiddles with the dashboard radio knob like a safecracker. Flipping through station after station; never settling, always complaining. About what songs played, the finite catalogue Cas’s car could tune to, how long it took finding decent music. All Cas held no control over, yet Dean blames him, still. Lashing out how he could because of the conditions Cas set that Dean had no choice but agreeing with if he were to tag along.

“Easy there,” Dean hollered, bent over the sink while the faucet showered down on his head. “I’d like to _have_ hair after this…”

He paused, fingers midway through scraping more gel off Dean’s locks. “I’m doing the best I can,” Cas tells him, “it’s not my fault you think _helmets_ are hip.”

“Just…” Dean sagged under him, dipping further into the powerful stream, “a little gentler?”

Cas said nothing but continued ridding Dean’s hair with less fervor than before. Practically massaging the scalp in his ministrations. It took longer, Cas finishing as his achy joints flared. At least Dean kept silent through the remainder of his mini-shower. “Okay,” he sighed, turning the faucet off, “all done.”

Dean stayed there, dripping onto dirty plates and cups. _Plink! Plink!_ “Do you have a towel or something?”

He had an old shirt, which Cas tossed Dean’s way. “Best I can do.”

“Seriously?” Dean leaned forward enough, sniffing the makeshift towel. “…Guess it’ll do.” He rubbed it through his hair, standing at full height once more. “Don’t know why you put me through all that water torture anyway…”

“As I keep having to remind you,” Cas said, digging through the piles of laundry covering his floor. Flinging clothes into different areas, terraforming the landscape. “We’re going to have to blend in at this party. And while _I_ will have no trouble, _you_ , on the other hand – _aha_!”

“Aha what?”

Cas spun on his heel; bandana clutched tight in his hand. He holds it towards Dean, grinning. His smile faltered, however, taking in Dean’s dry, unencumbered hair. Bangs framed the other man’s worried face, as the rest of his hair hung limply off the sides, parted at the middle. It looked softer, and the simple change made Dean appear approachable. Natural. _Mesmerizing_. “Wow,” Cas whispered, stunned.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean mumbled, pushing hair behind his ears with twitching fingers, “you gonna say something or what?”

He broke from the spell, wiping any trace of wonder from his expression with a forced smirk. “Sorry,” he said, “was just surprised you let your hair get this long… when’s the last time _you’ve_ been to a barber?”

Dean responded with a hefty pout, “I’ve been kinda busy… Is that all you had to say?”

“No,” Cas shuffled forward, twisting the bandana in his hands, “I want to see how this looks on you…” He pulled the green fabric taut, wrapping the thick line around Dean’s head. Deftly tied it, then freed Dean’s strangled bangs so they could fall across his face again. Cas leapt backwards, inspecting the addition. Dean glowered heavily, but it did not distract from the overall look. “We might make a hippie out of you yet, Dean Winchester,” Cas chuckled, gaze roving ever downward. Taking in the rest of his outfit for the full effect. The wardrobe Cas stuffed in Dean’s arms; that he begrudgingly wore. A wrinkled t-shirt with Mary Jane’s scribbled all over courtesy of a stoned, bored Andy. The capped sleeves clung tight, showcasing amazing biceps the detective hid with ill-fitting suits. And Cas’s _baggy_ mint-green-and-white striped linen pants proved too short for Dean. They ended midway on his calves, revealing dark socks and shiny, leather shoes. Cas frowned, “What are those?”

“What?” Dean followed his stare, brows scrunched in confusion, “my shoes?”

“Yes. Why are you wearing them?”

“Well, you didn’t give me any…”

“Exactly.”

Dean understood immediately what Cas meant, irritation flickering like lightning in his eyes. “No,” he said, “no way. Now you’re really just – you’re fucking with me, now. _This_ is your idea of a punishment, right?”

Cas folded his arms, brow arched in stern judgement. “You walk in wearing those shoes everyone at the party will know you’re a narc and we won’t get _any_ information. This isn’t punishment, it’s called _immersion_. You want to find out where your brother is, don’t you?”

He retreats, licking his wounds from Cas’s low blow. “I get that,” Dean mumbled, “but you don’t have any other hippie shoes or – hell, or even _sandals_?”

Another smirk appears on his lips. “I only have the one pair,” he kicked his foot out, displaying the left sandal, “and _I’m_ wearing them.”

Dean yawns, dragging Cas’s eyes off the road and onto him. The other man looked cozy in the passenger seat; knee pulled up so he can rest his chin on it. Arms wrapped around the leg while one hand fidgets with his toes. “How much longer ‘til we get there?”

“We’ll be there soon.”

Sighing, Dean turns his head. “This is a pretty swanky neighborhood,” he says, looking out the window, “you sure they’d let your kind throw a party here?”

Cas glances out his own window, stopped at a red light. While night had fallen, the grand houses were clearly visible. Painted a pearly white that somehow glowed. Subtle extravagance, like well-manicured topiary and balcony windows, that spoke of leisure. Old money didn’t demand attention, instead commanding it. They were reminders of _another_ life. “You can get away with a lot if you know the right people,” he says, hitting the gas as red becomes green.

They sharply round a corner, Dean shifting. He grabs at Cas’s arm, touch warm despite the jean jacket he wore over his tie-dyed tank top. “Crap,” Dean hisses, “give a guy some warning, will you?”

“Next time,” Cas promises, flicking his blinkers on again, “ _right_!” Dean slams into the car door, yelping. Cas bites his lip, cheeks puffed with silent laughter.

“Not funny…” The chill accompanying Dean’s biting remark blusters against Cas’s jacket. Dean resituates himself, sitting normally in the car seat as Cas slows the car, parking in an empty driveway of a two-story better described as being ‘mansion adjacent’. “Please tell me we’re here…”

“No,” Cas says, “we’re making a pit stop.”

“A pit stop?”

He opens the door, one leg thrown outside. “I have to pick up my niece.”

“Wait,” Dean grabs Cas’s wrist, tugging him close. Delaying his exit, “your _niece_? Why are we bringing your _niece_? How do you even _have_ a niece?”

Cas throws his head back with a groan, hitting the headrest. “I think you’re old enough to know what the birds and bees are, Dean.” At the other’s blank look, Cas tears his wrist from Dean’s grip. “Claire’s my brother’s kid, and she’s our way in.”

“How? This thing’s got tickets?”

“No, but she’s got the address… and she’d only tell me if I let her come.” He leaves, ducking so they were at eye-level. “Now it shouldn’t take too long. Just don’t say anything unprompted and we’ll be there for barely a second.”

Dean splutters, “You want me to go with you?”

“Yeah.” When Dean shows no effort in leaving, Cas offers a quick prayer up to any wandering spirit who might be listening. “Look, it’s better you stick with me in case anything happens. I leave you alone, a suspicious neighbor might call the cops on some loitering hippie in his car and send you down the river.”

“I’ll show ‘em my badge.”

“You really want your coworkers seeing you dressed like this? Explain to them _why_ you’re doing this, and where you’re going?”

If he keeps winning arguments in their relationship, he might need newer hats. Already the straw fedora he wore seemed tighter than yesterday, a small migraine forming at the base of his skull from an expanded ego. Intensified as Dean steps out, too, slamming the door behind him.

Cas abandons his car, walking across the lawn and towards a creaky, front porch. Each step whines under his weight, settling only when he reaches the top. A few more steps past a dusty porch swing, and Cas leans _hard_ on the doorbell.

Aware of how silent the steps are as the buzzing cuts, Cas turns. Dean stands at the edge of the lawn, staring at his feet. They shift uncertainly on the greenery, testing it. “Dean,” Cas hisses, calling him, “what are you doing?”

Dean winces, inching closer. “Sorry… never walked barefoot on grass before. It tickles…”

“You get used to it,” he says, urging him with a harried wave, “now come on!”

The detective conquers his discomfort, trudging next to Cas as the front door opens. Cas doesn’t watch it, instead focusing on Dean. He knows who stands in front of them by how Dean’s jaw drops slightly, brow furrows, and a million questions bloom like spring flowers in his eyes. “Castiel,” Jimmy says, voice lighter without the static of the telephone distorting it. The exhaustion and mistrust woven into his name are crisp, too. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

Cas faces his personal funhouse mirror, slowly raking his gaze across an alternate universe. Hair cut short and combed, jaw shaven, and eyes clear like a summer sky bordered by bulky glasses. Jimmy must have changed for the night, a deep red, satin robe draped over his shoulders, and pristine white pajamas underneath, paired with navy slippers. The corncob pipe completes the image, wraps Cas’s nightmare in a neat, little bow. Of a life Cas might have had if he never left.

“Jimmy,” he greets, nodding, “is Claire ready?”

“She’s still in her room.” He glances between them, expression worsening with each second. “Would you and your _friend_ like to come in?”

“You’re so kind!” Cas pushes past the threshold, strolling inside. Scopes the foyer for any changes since he last visited. There were little touches he doesn’t quite remember. Like the wilting roses in a nearby vase were light pink instead of a deep rouge. And they’ve added another picture of Claire, dressed in flowing blue robes, diploma resting on her lap. Cas can also see the space Amelia’s planned for when the actual document arrives. Further in the room, on a small table placed near an archway, Cas notices a small picture hidden behind a decorative sculpture worth more than he makes in three months. Grabbing the frame despite his brother’s objections, Cas sees his father’s face – sunken features, thinning hair, and false grin. “I see Ishim’s looking healthier than ever… but are those new liver spots on this temple or did the photographer forget to edit out his horns?”

“Probably smudges from your dirty hands,” Jimmy says, snatching the picture from Cas. He sets it back on the table, glaring at him and then to the side. Where Dean hovers by the still open door, looking small. “I thought I told you to stop bringing _those types_ with you whenever you visited… bad enough when it’s just you.”

Cas smiles, muscles taut from how broadly his face stretches. “Oh, he’s harmless,” he says loudly, drawing Dean’s attention, “aren’t you… _Rainbow_?”

Dean snipes a quick, murderous glare that sends an electric thrill racing through his spine. It quickly switches, however, as Jimmy looks at him. Transforms into a hippie with subtle changes: lips flatten and curl at the end, eyes half-lidded, burdened by the weight of his performance. Details that aid in his _believability_. He lifts his hand in a mock salute, peace sign resembling bunny ears with how lazily he holds his fingers. “Peace and _love_ …” he drawls, dragging the ‘o’. His ‘e’ rising half an octave as he fries the word. _Very_ convincing. If Cas happened across Dean in a party, he would find nothing square about him. Jimmy already appears two minutes away from an aneurysm, so the votes are in on how well Dean did. Cas quietly admits he might have been wrong about how good of an actor the detective was.

Thankfully Claire descends the stairs in the next moment, saving Cas from this waking nightmare.

“Uncle Cas!” she rushes him, forcefully colliding and snaking her arms around his midsection.

He slides back a few inches, laughing. “Claire!” Cas hugs her, too, then pries free from her grip, “Have you gotten taller? Or are you at the age where you don’t grow anymore?”

Claire rolls her eyes, punching his shoulder. Pretending unnecessary as his niece has a right hook fiercer than most brutes he had the displeasure of going against. While rubbing his tender shoulder, he studies her again. She dressed in a striking blue pair of bell bottoms that hid brown platforms, and a reddish peasant blouse. Her hair was sectioned off in two low pigtails. What drew his interest the most, however, were a wide pair of glasses that hung low on her nose. “These are new,” he pokes at the pinkish frame, “you taking the whole ‘rose-colored shades’ thing a little too literally…”

“No, I got them a few months ago,” Claire tells him, slapping his hand away, “my eyesight’s not what it used to be.”

“What time does to youth…” he sighs, elbowing his brother with a devilish grin. “Though you must be happy, having something in common with your daughter ‘n’ all.”

Jimmy squints at him, mouth trembling with the desire to frown. He retains his composure. “Actually, Amelia and I tried talking her out of getting glasses. The optometrist said her eyesight wasn’t too bad… if she cut back on the _reading_ and maybe kept to a better diet…”

“But they’re totally hip!” Claire protests, playing with her glasses, “Plus they make me look like Gloria Steinem – so of course I was getting them.”

He pinches his brow, sighing. “Her obsession with this Steinem woman is going to be the death of me…” Jimmy whispers under breath. Not quietly enough, Claire’s expression darkening.

Cas claps, cutting through the tension before its roots could burrow further. “Well,” he says, “I think we should get going, right? Claire?” He walks past her, grabbing her arm, except she doesn’t budge.

“Hold on,” Jimmy says, on her other arm, “I want to go over a few rules with _Claire_ before she leaves.” His brother’s façade gives nothing, but Cas knows from experience the storm lurking within. Has one just the same. Except where Cas’s is wild, Jimmy has trained it over the years. Precise enough he can lift a brow and thunder echoes in your bones. That rattling is all he can handle for the moment. Better trail out and let the clouds dissipate than stay and risk further blows. Like Jimmy deciding he can drive Claire to whatever lie she concocted instead of him.

There’s too much riding on this night for unnecessary risks. Cas folds, releasing his niece. Backs off with open palms held up in forfeit. “Come on Rainbow,” he says, exiting, “we’ll wait by the car.”

Dean follows, saving his protests for when they reach Cas’s bug. “Rainbow?” he asks, shoving, “That the best you could come up with?”

“I had to improvise, so?” Cas chuckles, leaning on his hood, “you not a fan of rainbows?”

He tenses at the question, ducking his gaze. “Not particularly, no…” Dean kicks his feet, pocketing his hands. Paces for a beat and then collapses beside Cas. “You have a brother.”

“I have many brothers,” he says, “and sisters.”

“Do they all look like you?”

“I mean we all came from the same father…” Cas sighs, “But, no. Jimmy’s my other half, in a way. We’ve got the same face, but we couldn’t be _more_ different.”

“I’ll say,” Dean snorts, “it was weird seeing _your_ face but… _that_. Short hair, clean cut…”

Cas turns to him, frowning. Studies the other man, searching for a hint of what he thinks. “Well,” he says, needling him, “now you know what’d be like if I ever went _straight_.”

Dean bristles slightly, meeting Cas’s stare. Surprisingly, he smiles. “Never thought I’d say this… I prefer you, uh – I like how you look now.”

“I’m sorry?” His cheeks hurt, instinct denying him a grin that fights for recognition. Realizing how pinched his muscles were, Cas relaxes and allows his expression to blossom. Warmth spreading freely down into his chest. “I thought you’d be happy. Telling me that I _should_ look like my brother.”

Blushing, Dean briefly darts his gaze away. “I like you the way you are,” he mumbles. Coughs, as if it could erase what was said and what he continues saying, “Don’t ever change, okay?”

It’s not like Dean’s opinion on his lifestyle meant much. Hearing those words – choosing him – doesn’t diminish the overall effect.

Cas ruins it himself. “It’d be okay,” he says, “if you did. You wouldn’t be the first. I mean, my father alone…” He trails off, sunshine eclipsed by home brewed grey clouds.

Dean’s brows furrow, “What about your dad?”

The front door swings open, Claire bounding down the porch steps. Her timing impeccable. Cas pushes off, feigning calmness. “Let’s get on the road,” he says, clearing his throat. “Dean… if you will?” Glancing at the front seat, Cas hopes Dean understands. He doesn’t trust his voice much right now.

Dean nods, walking to the passenger side. From his hunched shoulders, Cas senses this conversation has not ended. Delayed, certainly. But the lid on this box can’t stay closed forever. Especially after Dean bled his history in Cas’s apartment. Trusted him with the darkest parts of his past. A glimpse into Cas’s own family only begs more questions than they have time.

Maybe he can answer them all someday.

Five minutes into their journey, Cas thinks he can speak without risk of showing his hand. “So, Claire,” he starts, “what did ol’ Jimmy speak with you about.”

Claire sighs, stretching out in his backseat. “Rules. Like, how I’m only supposed to go to the lecture and _nowhere else_.”

“That’s the lie you went with?”

“It’s the only one he would buy,” she shrugs. Looking at his rearview mirror, he sees her studying the passenger seat. “So… who is this guy,” Claire asks, kicking, “really?”

Dean mutters a curse, craning his neck back. Meets her stare with similar scrutiny. Cas bites his cheek, stifling laughter. “He’s a friend,” Cas tells her, “But his name’s not Rainbow. Dean, Claire. Claire, Dean. Dean’ll be helping me snoop at the party –“

“What?” she yelps, shifting. Leaning forward into the space between he and Dean. “I thought I was your backup on this case. You promised –“

“I promised I’d bring you with me,” he says, wheel spinning as he languidly makes a left-hand turn. “But like I’ve mentioned, what I'm working on is very dangerous. One _especially_ so given how you’re _exactly_ the right age range to be targeted…”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” Cas nods, idling at a red light. He sighs, wringing the steering wheel. “But it’d kill me if anything were to happen to you. I can’t stop you from being at this love-in, but I trust that if you keep your nose out of my work, you’ll avoid pinging their radar… for the most part.” It’s not often he kills the mood, but tonight Cas is caught red-handed.

Claire, while obviously unhappy, does not argue any further. She sinks into the backseat, arms crossed. “And _Dean_ ,” she kicks the passenger seat again, “you’re okay with sending him into the fire?”

Cas rolls his eyes, “Dean’s got experience that you don’t. Being a cop has _some_ perks…”

“A cop?” Claire asks. Her glare doubles, scorching a hole into Dean’s headrest. “You’ve got a cop watching your back? What’s to say he won’t turn on you?”

Dean and he trade glances, the other man showing _restraint_ in not fighting with an eighteen-year-old girl. Cas squares his shoulders, bearing the burden of being the responsible one. “Let’s just say having a shared, vested interest in the outcome of tonight’s event means I can play nice for a couple hours. Can you?”

“Yeah,” Dean adds, “ _can you_?”

Cas arches a brow at him, “Sorry, can _both_ of you play nice?”

Dean, chastised, sulks in his seat. Claire mirrors him, albeit she makes it less obvious. Stone-faced, unlike Dean’s immature pout.

“Fine,” Claire says, “I _guess_.” She retakes her seat with a huff. “Although you better watch out. Some of his narc might rub off on you…”

He chuckles, “You see the way he’s dressed? Better hope I don’t rub off on _him_.” Winking at a scandalized, cherry-cheeked Dean, Cas continues. “Now, is there anything I can do to spread a little love? Nothing draws attention at a party more than a sour puss.” Claire’s lips twitch, his efforts cracking at that shell. Her composure won’t crack, however, too old for such simple tricks. _Puss_ stopped being funny once she hit double digits. “C’mon Claire… is there _nothing_?”

“Well…” Claire chances a look at Dean, humming. “Maybe, there might be something… but since I know the kind of company you keep, who knows if you’ll have it?”

“What is it?”

“…You got any grass?”

Cas sheds his seriousness, face wrinkled by his wide grin. Breathing deep without the weight of responsibility. “Of course, I do,” he says, “Dean, dig around in the glove box. There should be some.”

“What?” Dean hisses, whirling on him, “I thought you promised me you wouldn’t be carrying tonight.”

“I didn’t lie,” he tells Dean, “that weed was already in there. Figured you’d understand – prepare for any situation and all that shit.”

“Cas…” Dean drags a tired hand over his mouth, brows settling above his aggravated gaze. “Going to this party, dressing like this is one thing… but I can’t let you, and _especially_ Claire, smoke dope in my presence.”

“And what about the tens and twenties of people smoking dope in the house we’re going to?” Dean won’t answer him, jaw tensing as he stares at the road. “C’mon,” Cas sighs, letting go of the wheel so he can wrap his hand around Dean’s wrist. “I’m not gonna make you smoke if you don’t want to… but if Claire wants to get a little high than rather it be here, with stuff I _know_ is 100% pure hash and not anything that’s been cut and laced with other shit.”

Dean whistles a sad, short note, air hissed through his lips. He opens the glove box, digging around with the hand not restrained by Cas. Both content letting it continue. “Fine,” he tosses a plastic baggie into the backseat, “but open the window, blow all your smoke out there. I don’t plan on getting stoned tonight.”

Claire snorts, biting back a retort Cas bets is similar to his. How, by attending this party, Dean guarantees he’ll end the night less pure than started. But he’s a big boy. Dean can handle some second-hand smoke.

He hears Claire roll the window down, Dean doing the same a beat later as a lighter flicks on.

They drive the rest of their way in silence, interrupted only as Claire tells them where to turn and some history about where they head.

“This whole patch of land belongs to this kook named Creaser,” she explains as the last house on the block ends, miles of greenery stretching far on either side, “and in the center, is where the party’s at.”

“Creaser… wait a minute,” Cas says, “are you talking about Martin Creaser?”

“Yep!”

Dean arches a brow at him, “You _friends_ with this guy, too?”

“Hell no,” he scowls, “bastard was, as Claire said, a certified _kook_. Never left his house if he could help it… and didn’t care if you were a trespasser or the milkman, he’d come at you with a loaded gun and not stop until he pulled the trigger.” Cas looks at Claire’s face in the rearview, “What the hell is Creaser doing hosting a _party_?”

“Well, it’s not really _his_ party,” Claire continues, “the story goes that a few years back, he broke his hip. And while he was recovering, they sent this nurse to look after him – feed him, bathe him, clean up his shit _and_ his _shit_. Somehow, through all of it, they fell in love. Or, at least _he_ fell in love with _her._ Whatever she wanted he’d give her, no problem. One day she brings in this band, asking if they can stay in this old guest house they have. Bats her eyes, teases her skirt… of course Creaser gives the okay. After that, a whole bunch of those artist types started cycling through. He becomes some sort of _patron_ to the _arts_ and – well, every day is like a party.”

“Then what’s so special about tonight?”

Claire smiles, wetting her thumb and pointer finger so she can pinch the smoldering nub. “It was the only night I could get off.”

Cas sighs, his niece’s bowstring resting after playing him so well. He looks at Dean, the other man meeting him in the middle with pursed smile. Laughter visible through the creases around his eyes and shaking shoulders.

“Whatever,” he says, “I’m not mad.” He was _slightly_ annoyed. But Cas crumbles that into a tight little ball and shoves it elsewhere. There were bigger things on his radar than some slight trickery. He needs focus for the mission ahead. Especially since they came upon the very house Claire talked about.

He parks haphazardly on the edge of the crowd of cars, behind a van where two stragglers pass a joint between them. They wave, the one holding lifting their hand in greeting.

“Okay, everyone,” he says, saluting them, “into the belly of the beast we wander.”

Claire opens her door, scoffing. “Don’t wait up, Uncle Cas!”

“Claire -!” She frolics before he can stop her, shrinking out of sight. He moves to follow her but finds himself stuck. Glancing at his right hand, still clutching onto Dean’s wrist, he sees that at some point Dean snaked his fingers around Cas’s. His mouth suddenly dry, Cas tries swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Dean,” he whispers, “what are –“

Dean follows his stare, and then jumps back. Tumbling out of his seat and onto the grass with an curse. “Sorry,” he says, standing. Brushing off dust and dirt. “Sorry, I – I didn’t mean to…” Dean slaps his legs, twice, and turns his head. A patch of blotchy redness creeps up past his collar along his neck. “We should probably get going.”

“…Yeah.”

Cas stepped onto the grass, closing the door as Dean rounded the hood. Their audience barely paid them mind since arriving. Giggling like mad, crawling deeper into their van. He tucks his keys away, jogging after Dean. The other man striding forward without waiting for Cas.

“Hey,” he hisses, grabbing his elbow. Dean jerking free a second later, whirling around, “ _cool it_.” Cas scans the area, checking for any eavesdroppers. “Take a breather, man. You go in hot like that, people’ll think you’re on a bad trip. And no one’s chatty with _that_ guy.”

Dean worries his lip, looking the type of panicky that would blow their cover. He catches Cas’s stern glare, however, and does as requested. Like a snake, he sheds his nerves all over the lawn. Adopts a looser posture as he did back in Jimmy’s house. Although Dean’s smile seems more forced than before, and his twitchy hands are noticeable even hidden as they are in pants pockets. Little things that won’t get them busted; but will definitely distract Cas. Divide his concern between two mysteries. “Better?” Dean asks.

Cas hums a thoughtful note. “It’ll do,” he says, “C’mon. Let’s party.”

Restarting their trek, Cas allows himself to spiral in the calmness. He reflects on how it felt, moments ago, in his cabin. When Dean and him held hands, somewhat. Not really. But also kind of? Holding each other’s wrists must count, even though it missed a few key elements. Their palms hadn’t touched, but if they did Cas imagines Dean’s would be warm and calloused. Perhaps a little sweaty. And there were no laced fingers, a common practice whenever Cas holds _anyone’s_ hand. It’d not be a _true_ hold if their fingers weren’t tangled, thumbs safe because of their distance. Purposes served elsewhere gently brushing the skin on the backs –

“Get a grip, Novak.”

“What was that?”

Cas shrugs, audaciously winking at Dean. “I didn’t say anything, Dean,” he says, “you hearing things? Some of that smoke find its way up your nose?”

Dean huffs, rolling his eyes. He doesn’t press further, taking in their surroundings. Façade fading as they near the house, weaving through milling crowds outside it. Cas bets there are more people here than there are who live in Mar Del Vista. “This is insane,” he growls, shoulder-checked by a rowdy teen rushing past, curls bouncing. “How are all these people allowed to _do_ this every night?”

“You saw the rolling pastures we passed right?” Cas snorts, “There’s no one around to lodge a noise complaint, unless you count birds and squirrels. Although I doubt they’ve evolved enough for a concept of sound pollution.”

“No one has to call anything in. What’s being done here –“

“Can be hushed up with a little donation.” They pause at the foot of the porch steps, “you do realize the guy footing the bill has _deep_ pockets.”

Sighing, Dean pushes his bangs back. “It shouldn’t work like that, y’know. Fucking awful how that happens.”

“Preaching to a convert, Dean.” Cas claps his shoulder, a friendlier expression gracing his features. “But enough with depressing shit like that. This is a party, after all.”

A very large one. Already there were countless people on the lawns, grooving at their own pace. Given the size of the manor and the fleet of cars dotting the surrounding area, Cas expected even _more_ people inside. He’s still surprised as they pass the threshold, the milling bodies in this first room alone giving him pause.

“Holy fuck,” Dean growls, wincing at the loud music blasting through speakers, “what the hell are we supposed to do now?”

Cas studies the room quickly, forming a plan. “Simple,” he says, advancing, “ _blend_.”

Dean follows, “Even if it takes all night?”

“Oh Dean,” Cas laughs, reaching around and dragging him into a one-sided hug. “This whole mess ain’t ending ‘till sun up, anyhow. We’re bound to get lucky by then.” Even under the brightly colored and ever-changing strobes, Cas sees how Dean’s skin pales. “Don’t act like that. Let the energy flow _through_ you… get _with_ it, man!”

A strong vibe radiates from Dean, starkly contrasting the peace and love floating throughout. Cas ignores his resistance and guides him into the mix, hoping that the other man will loosen up by exposure.

“Cas,” he whines, fighting with the music to be heard, “we shouldn’t be wasting _time_ –“

“We’re not,” he tells Dean, finding a space on the floor for both of them. Releasing him, Cas shuffles a few inches and shakes his hips. “We’re building cover. Becoming part of a bigger thing, tuning into the universe –“

“Can you cut the _shit_ , Cas?”

He frowns, Dean’s flashing dimples throwing him off. “Fine,” he says, swinging his arms, “maybe I thought we could have a little fun before we get serious –“

“ _You_ –“

“No, you,” Cas interrupts, dancing closer. Caging him in, making him listen. “You have probably never had fun in your life. No wonder you’re the way you are! I mean, when was the last time you just danced for the hell of it?”

Dean crosses his arms, not meeting Cas’s eyes. “I _don’t_ dance.”

“Well, you should. It’d do you a whole world of good.” His opinion strikes a blow against solid steel, crumbling into dust. However, Cas now knows its weak point and abuses that privilege. “Y’know, it’s pretty _square_ being the only guy in the crowd _not_ dancing. Might make people suspicious…”

“Cas…”

“Just saying… it’d be pretty hard finding out where Sammy is if no one feels comfortable conversatin’ with you.” Dean mulls his argument over, defenses faltering. “And, y’know,” Cas adds, “I am right, about this building cover. The night’s only just begun… too early for loose lips. This is a _waiting game_. You’ve been at this for how many years? What’s ten more minutes?”

Dean pinches his brow, muttering under breath. “I feel like I’m going to regret this.”

“You won’t regret anything!” Cas promises, “Regret is for squares and straight-laced freaks!” A few nearby people cheer, agreeing with him. Drawing attention their way. Cas bows his head, chuckling. “C’mon, don’t wanna disappoint your fans now, do you?”

“I hate you so much.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t presume to know how I feel…” Dean shoves him back, “And give me space. I… it’s been awhile, okay?”

“Whenever you’re ready…” Cas bounces on the balls of his feet, waiting. Watching Dean for what he’ll do. With a scowl and set jaw, he looks ready for a test instead of dancing. But soon he shakes his hips, and his fingers wiggle somewhat. One arm shot forward, dragged down as the other takes its turn. “Oh wow,” he says, chest swelling in wonder, “I… I am very glad we did this.”

Dean’s knees bend, and he jerks his thumb while rolling his hips. “Well?” he asks, “are you gonna dance or what?”

“I’m dancing, Dean!” Cas says, jumping in time to the beat, “I’m dancing!” They circle each other, never letting the rocking mass interrupt their act. Staying close despite the strong tides crashing into them.

Ten minutes passed, or so he thought. It might have been an hour. He lost track after the third song, when Cas drifted close to Dean. Whispered a joke about the guy frozen by a nearby window, drool cascading down his chin. The undercover detective threw his head back, barking with laughter. Resting it on Cas’s shoulder. Startled, Cas stopped dancing. Too focused on Dean’s belted joy than the fast tempo hit. Sense returning as Dean’s head lifted, shaking, hair flying.

Cas now bends, gasping for breath while wiping sweat from his brow. “Okay,” he says, “I think that’s good, for now. Dean, how about…” He trails off, Dean stealing every ounce of sense from him.

He’s lost in the music. Eyes closed, his body bends and sways with a flexibility Cas never imagined Dean possessed. A hand slides through his hair, droplets of sweat thrown from the sandy locks. His body twists as Dean marches in place, stomping, feet slapping loudly on the tiled floor. Nothing of what he performed _resembles_ dancing. But, for the first time in his life Cas supposes, Dean stopped thinking and allows himself to… be. Exist. _Enjoy_.

Amusement rises from his chest, “Beautiful…”

Dean opens one eye, and all the staunched apprehension attacks, swallowing him whole. He steadies, bashfully staring at the floor. Overthinking every flick of his wrist and step. The smile on Cas’s face falls, seeing how those nasty flies buzz around Dean’s head. Biting, waking him from his dream-like state. “We…” Dean starts, clearing his throat, “we should probably get to it… shouldn’t we?”

“Uh, yeah,” Cas says, rubbing his chin. Sighing, he reaches for him, “Dean –“

He sinks into the crowd. “I’ll find you,” Dean yells, waving, “later. I’ll find you! Don’t worry!”

“Dean!” The sea washes Dean off, Cas losing sight of him as his arm sinks into the water. Cas hurries after him, but knows the other man is lost. Currents pulling them in different directions. Spitting them out on different beaches. He stumbles on the outskirts of the crowd, near the windows. By the drooling boy, still looking outside. Not moving since Cas last saw him.

Cas drifted towards him. “Anything interesting out there?” Ignored, Cas peeks through the glass. Besides his reflection, there’s a shroud of darkness blanketing the landscape. View greatly obstructed by light’s absence.

He hopes the rest of his evening proves more exciting than that.

* * *

Tonight earns itself the most coveted spot on Cas’s list of ‘ _Strangest Events He Ever Took Part In_ ’. Surpassing the backroom orgy filled with political hopefuls and greedy plutocrats; even making a depressing one-man show, a client’s husband’s secret ambition he cheated on his family for, seem more optimistic. At least, when leaving that, he felt confident in all his choices up until then.

Still within Creaser’s house, Cas questions if there might be some truth in plastic paranoia about dropping out.

He stands beside the kitchen counter, stirring the punch bowl. Transfixed by the miniature whirlpool he creates. Focusing on that instead of the discordant melody echoing in this room. The music that blasted loudly in the main room splintered the further you traveled through the building, each space sounding different than the last. Here, the words follow the instruments a beat later, like a poorly dubbed foreign film.

Although that’s just one oddity to tack on, many more concerning him. Like how there seemed like a never-ending source of people flowing into the house, taking up every inch. Cas left claustrophobic by how packed it became. Afraid the walls strained from the effort of confining such a large crowd. The only one concerned.

Everyone else was wrapped in their own heads, little dreams playing in the gloss of their drooping eyes. Haunting hallways, unmoving. Barely talking. Squeezing an answer from these kids proved difficult, sense drained from them already.

_Crash!_

Cas flinches, turning. Nobody else did. A broken plate rests on the floor, jagged edges scattered about. Revelers carried on with the conversations only they could hear, ignoring any interruptions, like the second plate the followed the first. Girl by the cupboard flinging it behind her as she searches.

He steps around the mess, grabbing her third victim before she could attack. “Hey,” he says, “what are you doing? People could get hurt!”

She stares at him, eyes hollow and blank, flowers painted on each of her cheeks. “Cups?”

“Cups?” Cas asks, closing the cupboard with the back of his hand. “Why are you looking for cups? There’s a stack over by…” He trails off, the girl drifting away in the middle of his sentence. “Unbelievable,” he scoffs, “no wonder our image is down. Forget Manson…” Cas slides the plate into the sink, abandoning this kitchen for elsewhere.

Wandering, Cas happens across more strange sightings.

Case in point, he finds their lovely host for the evening. In a dark, smoky room, Cas finds him perched on a wide, four-poster bed. Draped fabric torn at places, stained elsewhere. Two gorgeous women flanked him, a brunette holding a joint by his lips while a blonde plays with a very _obvious_ wig that crookedly sat atop his head. There were others in the room, all in various stages of undress. But his gaze could not stray from the man he remembered, in his childhood, as being antithetic to this whole scene.

“Hey babies,” he rasps, fingers tweaking exposed nipples, “I think I’m ready for another round… Are you?”

Cas runs from the room, Martin’s kaftan sliding over his knees jolting him out of shock. Hurrying down a funhouse hall, exit never closer despite how fast he moves. Floor tilting, knocking him off balance. Obstacles littering the area.

He finally reaches a new section of the house, descending stairs with heavy footfalls. Halfway down, however, he spots a few more familiar faces interspersed with the crowd of bodies Dean and he had previously been part of. Ducking, Cas peers between the bannisters at lost-looking federal agents.

As expected, Ketch looks on his last nerve. Steady as a rock while dancers knocked against him, undisturbed. Wearing a jacket and, from what he sees, a cravat. More prepared for a night at home than this. At least Mick did some research. Only recognizing him because of his proximity to the other man, face obscured by oversized sunglasses and a bad afro wig that leaves a sour taste in Cas’s mouth. They don’t notice him, shouting at each other over the music. But given their attendance, Cas doubts he can evade them forever.

The whole night’s been a wash anyway.

Switching gears, Cas climbs back up with a new plan. Finding Claire, Dean, and dragging them both out of this altered reality.

Claire was the easier of the two to track. He finds her on a balcony, chatting with another girl. Her braided hair interspersed with flowers, plainly dressed in a white t-shirt and ragged jeans. “Claire,” he says, leaning through the entryway, “Claire, we need to go.”

She glowers, hand slinking away from the other girl’s ear. “Cas,” she hisses, “not now. I’m kinda busy –“

“No.” He digs around in his pockets, finding and then tossing his keys towards her. She catches them with a pout. “I want you to go to the car, start it, and then lock the doors until you see me and Dean come back, okay? Can you do that?”

“Christ, Cas,” she shuffles closer, whispering, “you’re looking spooked. What the hell’s happening in there?”

“A little unexpected company showed up,” he explains, glancing behind. Checking for any agents. “It’s better we make our own exit before someone makes it for us, okay? Just… trust me on this?” She nods, dropping further arguments. “Thank you,” Cas sighs, squeezing her arm, “now, have you seen Dean anywhere?”

Claire shrugs, “I’ve mainly been with Kaia the whole night.” Kaia, hearing her name, politely waves at him. Looking at her again, a sense of recognition tickles the back of his mind. Something about her making him feel like they’ve met some other time. It dissipates as soon as she breaks their stare, urgency reasserting itself.

“Really? You didn’t run into him anywhere?”

“Well, I was coming out of the bathroom, and –“

“And?”

“I saw him leaving the kitchen,” she says, “going… somewhere.”

Cas groans, kneading his temple. “Is there anything else you can remember?”

“I mean, not really, it’s pretty hard seeing fucking _anything_ in here, there are so many people,” she scoffs, “And the windows are bolted – for some reason – so it’s not like you can get fresh air _anywhere_. Almost broke my bobby picking this lock…” Claire taps her chin, thinking. “You could try the bathrooms?”

“Why there?”

“When he left the kitchen, he was carrying a glass,” Claire tells him, “he’ll have to pee at some point?”

Kaia steps into the fray, grabbing Claire’s wrist. “Wait, a glass from the kitchen?” she asks, “What was inside, was it the punch?”

“It looked too red to be tap.”

Cas squints at the other girl, snarling. “What’s the matter? Why’s it important what drink he got?”

She rubs at her neck, grip tightening on Claire. His niece lays her hand over Kaia’s, petting scabbed knuckles. “Your friend… if he drank the punch, then it’s the right idea getting out of here. I… there were people, earlier, who spiked it with some pretty heavy stuff. You should find him before anyone _else_ does.”

“Shit.”

Cas sprints from the balcony, pushing away every distraction that blocks him from his goal. Whether external, like the listless partygoers holding empty cups, or internal, such as the heart-shaped lump camping in Cas’s throat.

Which, if he gave the reaction any thought, was an appropriate reaction. Dean may have admitted to casual dope use in his past, Cas knows he’s unprepared for anything harder. There’s no guessing how he might react. He could blow their cover, or worse, _hurt_ himself.

But that spiral won’t get him anywhere fast.

He leans on the wall of the fourth floor, standing by the stairs. Gasping, exhausted from his hike. Cas scrambled over steps, on all fours, wilder the longer Dean evades him. Although, with this level, he finds his anxiety lessening. Maybe because the music below cannot reach this high, or battles between darkness and the pulsing lightshow hadn’t twisted his surroundings. Everything looks normal, from what he can tell. Even the guests, who are engaging in thoughtful conversation. Not at all the zombies that hid around every corner.

Cas’s nerves don’t fully leave, however, a healthy amount of paranoia tagging along.

It’s almost _too_ perfect.

With each step, he feels a new person looking at him. Hears the pause in conversation as they consider him, sneaks glances of his own. Notes important details. Like how similarly they’re all dressed, with love beads and plain jeans. Flowers pinned in their hair, placed behind ears, or held aloft in their hands. And thought there are many people talking, they say the same things.

“…no one should feel like that…”

“…your parents, they’re the ones who are forcing all this, dig?...”

“…letting go, forgetting all that noise, that’s what you…”

An icy chill pricks his exposed skin like needles, realizing _they_ are the _only_ ones talking. Cas shudders. Composure lapsing momentarily, broken like thin ice on a winter lake. Stumbling into dangerous territory, Cas hopes he can slink off without alerting too much notice than he already has.

But then he hears a captivating song, that draws him towards a nearby room, and keeps him on the fourth floor longer.

Dean sits with his knees drawn close, twirling a flower. Giggling while it spins. As Cas inches into the candle-lit space, tip-toeing past other dazed occupants, he sees tears spilling down the other man’s cheeks. As another falls, a large thumb brushes across Dean’s cheek, stealing it.

A burly man chats with Dean, dressed like his friends. Hair pulled tight in a ponytail, and a carnation blossoming over his shirt. His voice, southern and swampy, croons a hypnotizing tune that’s hard for Dean to resist in his loopy state. “Now, you can see how living life that way is crazy right? Forcing yourself to conform to a bunch of made-up, invisible _rules_. Not questioning _why_ they’re there, just doing, right?” Dean nods, drawing a wider, toothier smile from the man. “It’s all bullshit, anyway brother. They think we need them… but really, they’re the ones who need us. Need us to keep our heads down, ask no questions. If it weren’t for –“ A loud sob cuts across the room, a woman comforting another as she sobs. Cas scowls, listening through the background noise for the other man’s pitch. “You know what? I think he’d like you. I already do… helps you got such a pretty face. You wanna do that? See the man who’ll solve _all_ your problems.”

No he would _not_. Cas enters the fray, answering for Dean. Snatches his hand before the other man could, dragging him to his feet. “Dean,” he says, breathless, “I’ve been looking all over for you man! Don’t sneak off on me…”

“Cas?” Dean slurs, rapidly blinking at him. “What are you… where’d you come from?”

“You know that, don’t you?” Cas chuckles, glaring at the stranger as he rises. “C’mon, we’re heading out. There’s an even _groovier_ party catching fire downtown. Apparently, Fleetwood’s in town. If we leave now maybe we can share a joint with Stevie – what do you say?”

Dean laughs, head lolling with the force of it. “Silly Cas… m’not a reefer addict. I’m a –“

“A lightweight!” Cas yells over him, guiding him from the room. The stranger a step or two behind. “Maybe we should get you home instead?”

“Or,” the stranger interrupts, laying a paw on Dean’s shoulder. Placid expression deadly with how the shadows warp it. “you two can sleep it off later over at my pad. I mean, the party’s only starting now… ain’t too _hip_ calling it quits now.”

“Sleep sounds pretty good,” Dean yawns, hand squirming, wriggling for freedom. “How close is your house, Night Shadow?”

Cas uses all his strength and keeps Dean in line, throwing Benny off Dean’s shoulder. “Too far for us,” he says, “let’s go.”

There was no alternative. Dean will curse him out later, for walking away from an opportunity like that. But at least when he wakes in the morning, it’ll be as himself and not like all the other flies who were wrapped in this web. Cas feels each and every stare as they stumble down the stairs. Dean’s feet dragging, making it hard for an easy escape. Although, if necessary, Cas will bend him over his shoulders and dash.

It never reaches that point.

The only difficulty in their retreat was tearing Dean from the dance floor. Like an over-excited dog, Cas fought the other man. Keeping a firm hold, not losing him in that crowd again. Wrapping an arm around his waist, Cas better manages in restraining him. They hurry through the threshold, leaving the swirling stronghold of negativity and strangeness in their wake.

“ _Cassss_ …” Dean’s breath tickles his neck, mouth resting there. Weak from the drug’s effect, he cannot control complex functions like keeping his head raised or walking in a straight line. “Cas, you can’t never say I have the stick in my ass anymore,” he says, “I was having _fun_. You were bein’ the _wet blanket_.”

“Sure Dean,” Cas says, “a total drip…”

He nears their car, thankful that Claire did as asked and sits in the front seat. She took some liberties, Cas not remembering giving her co-pilot clearance for entry. That fight will wait, Dean’s knees buckling reasserting his priority. “Unlock the door, Claire,” he shouts, struggling, “unlock the door!”

Kaia leans back, flicking the locks and opening the backseat for them. They collapse, Cas on top of Dean, their legs tangled and hanging.

“Whoa,” Claire studies the scene, worry reflecting off the rearview mirror, “what the hell happened –“

“No time,” Cas says, stuffing the rest of their bodies inside the car. Slamming her door shut behind him. “Drive, Claire. Drive!”

She crushes the pedal, his car whining as her wheels kick up mud. Soon, she dislodges from the spot, and drives down the way they came in. The scenery blurring as they go double over the suggested speed. Creaser’s manor fading into the horizon, Cas watching until the topmost spire disappears.

He feels a slight tickle against his chin, from Dean’s hair as he nuzzles closer. At some point, the other man lost his struggle with those drugs in his system. Fading into unconsciousness, Dean’s final moments were making himself comfortable using Cas as a temporary pillow. An arm curled around his back, and their joined hands pressed over his chest.

Without any of the earlier adrenaline, Cas is inclined to join Dean. Relax now that the worst is over, the danger averted. Despite how heavy his eyelids were, however, they cannot close. They resist, staring at his and Dean’s hands. At how their palms touched, Cas wondering how they stayed so soft. Their fingers slotted together in an almost perfect way that makes him question whether he had fallen asleep. And if he awoke, Dean and he would be at separate ends of the car. Opposite sides, like they’re used to. Not this.

If Dean weren’t incapacitated, he would definitely protest like he did hours before. Cas should let go.

They stay like that for the rest of their ride.

Claire parks in front of his apartment, turning the engine off. She glances in the backseat, worrying her lip. “Cas,” she whispers, fiddling with the keys, “what’ve you gotten into this time?”

He sighs, shifting. “I’ll explain in the morning. Why don’t you call Jimmy, let him know you’re crashing with me for the night.”

“Why don’t you call him?”

“I’ll be busy with other things,” he glances at Dean, huffing. “Besides, I’m not in the mood to deal with my brother. Pretty sure I’ll end up saying something I’ll regret. At least he can only get so mad with you…”

“What about –“

“I’ll take care of him.” Cas looks between the two girls, Kaia hunched over in her seat. “Kaia, was it? You and Claire can sleep on my couch for the night. I’ve got a few beach towels lying around you can use as blankets – Claire’ll know what they look like.”

Kaia smiles, a tiny, fragile thing. Brown eyes deep with an unspoken past that dredges sympathy from his own murky waters. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” he says, looking out the window, “just… you better be there when I finally come to tomorrow, s’all. Claire, keep an eye on her.”

“She won’t leave my sight!”

Cas waits for the sound of doors closing, assured he and Dean were finally alone. Glancing at the dozing officer, Cas squeezes his shoulder. “Hey,” he says, shaking him, “Dean, wake up.”

Dean groans, hiding in Cas’s chest. “Ugh…”

“C’mon, Dean,” he continues, “you don’t want to fall asleep in here. Trust me… your neck will hurt for _weeks_. She’s not as comfortable as she appears. Why don’t you follow me in and you can take my bed tonight?”

Chuckling, Dean opens a bleary eye. Rimmed red, most of the green overtaken by his black pupils. “You tryna get me in your bed, Cas?” he asks, staring at Cas’s chin. “Boy… I must be dreaming, huh?”

Cas ignores the little flip of his stomach, brushing off Dean’s muttered response. “God, I wish I had a camera…”

“Why’s that?”

“You’d never believe me if I told you how you acted once you sobered.”

Dean shifts, more upright than before. “Whaddya mean? I’m not sober right now?”

“Dean, my man,” Cas says, opening the car door, “you are _flying_.” He climbs out of the backseat, helping Dean as he shows no sign of moving. The other man stumbles, at first, but finds his footing soon enough. Together they climb a short mountain onto Cas's floor. Meandering towards his apartment at a slow pace, Dean reveling in the complexity of senses that come from major trips. His fingers glided across the metal railing, like _touching_ it for the first time. He bobbed his head around, seeing more than what there was. And the smells were indescribable, though he tried.

“Really, Cas how are you not – oh God,” he groans, falling out of Cas’s hold. Hitting the wall by his door, sliding. “I’ve never smelt anything so wonderful…”

“Dean.” Cas hefts him forward, steadying him, “I’ll trust your word on it, now if you’ll –“

He dips his nose into the crook of Cas’s neck, huffing. “Is that you, man?” Dean asks, giggling, arms waving madly at his sides. “Oh, I thought you’d _reek_ , but this… it’s so spicy. How? What kind of soap do you use?”

“I don’t use soap.”

“Maybe that’s it…”

“All right, enough of that,” Cas pries Dean from his body, neck aflame from where he was. “Let’s get you inside.” Luckily, there were no further delays. Dean complied, quietly shuffling beside him. And the girls were curled on either side of the couch, worn from the exciting night as they were. “C’mon,” he whispers, tugging Dean deeper into the apartment. Hands still joined from before. “My room’s this way.”

They avoid making too much noise, slipping into his bedroom without trouble. Cas drags a decorative ornamental folding wall in front of the archway, improvising as there was no door. The painted marshlands protecting Claire and Kaia from seeing things they might not want. Frogs and cranes frozen on the linen indifferent towards their modestly.

“Okay,” Cas says, “that should be enough. Let’s get you to – _Dean!_ ”

Dean frowns, shirt halfway pulled over his head. “What?” he scoffs, discarding that fabric in his next breath. Tosses it to the other side of the room. “I’m getting ready for bed,” Dean explains, stepping out of borrowed pants. Fingers numb, he whacks the bandana free from his forehead. Detective left in only a pair of white briefs that glow in the darkness. “You expect me to sleep in _street clothes_?”

“I…” Cas hadn’t thought that far ahead, about what Dean would wear. He never had those problems, sleeping in the buff. But now, seeing all Dean’s bare skin in front of him. The flat lines of his stomach, and the curve of his legs that give him the appearance of riding a horse even with nothing under him. There’s a definite problem rising, one Cas prays Dean won’t notice. Which, from how he lies on his back, limbs splayed, shouldn’t be a problem. “Sure, whatever,” he growls, settling onto the floor beside the bed, “sleep however you feel comfortable. Good night, Dean.”

He has a single moment of peace while lying on his side. Stolen as something sharp jabs at his sides. Dean flipped onto his stomach, glaring at him from the mattress with his pointer finger extended. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to sleep,” he says, “like you should.”

“But why there?”

“Where else would I sleep?”

“ _On_ your _bed_?” Dean suggests, like _Cas_ wasn’t thinking clearly. As if they were close enough that sharing an intimate space such as Cas’s bed wouldn’t muddy an already confusing relationship.

Oh, how Cas missed the days when he barely knew Dean Winchester other than the crumbs gleaned from fifteen-minute conversations. Cas didn’t understand how peaceful his life was, keeping the detective at a distance. Today, he gorged himself on a never-ending buffet of the other man. Belly distended from how much of the detective he swallowed whole. He ate more than his fair share for one meal, yet he still hungered. Would gladly accept the indigestion for another plate. Even if it were scraps. Cas still has his manners. “I shouldn’t,” he says, frowning, “you… you wouldn’t be asking me this if you were in your right mind.”

“I don’t think I’d be able to if I _weren’t_ ,” he tells Cas, poking him again. “So, please? For me?”

The problem with being faintly acquainted with the word ‘no’ – Cas slides onto the bed next to him. Clothes staying mostly on, jacket, sandals, and hat left where he planned on sleeping. Dean latches on instantly, leg thrown over Cas’s knees, and an arm heavy over his chest.

“This is nice…” he hums.

Cas agrees with a choked gasp, sweltering from Dean’s overheated body. Even with a scrap of fabric protecting him from fully embracing the natural lifestyle, his skin runs _hot_. In the nicest way possible, that brings a healthy flush to Cas’s cheeks. Blushing more than he ever had in his entire life.

“Y’know,” Dean carries on, speaking into Cas’s shoulder, “I get why people do this now.”

“Do what?”

“Sleep with other people. In the same bed and stuff… I was never convinced but this…”

Cas arches a brow, gazing down at Dean. “You mean you’ve never slept with anyone before?”

“Nope!” He pops the ‘p’, giggling, “You’d be the first. I’ve never… never slept with anyone. Or otherwise…”

“Or otherwise…” Cas shifts, sliding from Dean’s grasp. Turning onto his side, “Are you saying you’ve never had sex?”

Dean whines, sitting up by resting on his elbows. “Why’d you do that –“

“Dean,” Cas touches his chest, surprisingly serious. Very invested in what the answer of his question is. “You’ve never had sex with anyone? You’re a virgin?”

In an unsettling moment of clarity, Dean’s nerves return. Like the fog of drugs lifted briefly, alerting him to the gravity of his admittance. “No,” he sighs, collapsing on the bed, “I’ve never done it.”

“But… but you have a fiancé?”

“So?”

“You and Abby…”

“No, me and Abby never did _it_ , Cas,” Dean growls, fists rubbing circles into his temple. “Neither did me and Lisa, me and Cassie… Lydia, Tessa…” These names flit past, Cas not sure who Dean talks about. He suspects Dean forgets Cas is with him as he babbles. “All those girls, and I’ve never had sex with them. They wanted to – hell, they _really_ wanted to, but I… I kept telling myself I was holding out for the perfect girl. One like my ma… basically chasing ghosts like my dad, avoiding the truth.”

Cas brushes his thumb over Dean’s heart, hand still on his chest. “Which is?”

“I don’t think there’ll ever be the right girl for me.”

There he goes. Ripping up more of his garden, showering Cas in the petals. Gifting him with further insight while Cas, greedy as he is, offers nothing in return.

Not this time.

“I didn’t think there’d every be the right _anything_ for me,” Cas starts, drawing Dean into his arms. “I… never fit in with my family. Hard to shine when you’re the youngest of twelve. The added benefit of being born with a twin only made it worse. Jimmy and I were compared constantly throughout our lives, and no matter what I tried… it never was enough for Ish… for my dad. There finally came a point though, that I… that I had enough. I couldn’t take it anymore. He kept expecting something out of me that I couldn’t give him, so one day I said that if he can’t accept what’s already there than he doesn’t have to have any of it.”

“What happened?”

“He didn’t get to have any of it,” Cas shrugs. Phantom pain twinges in his awareness, although the scars so thoroughly healed it barely pings his radar. “I left that night, taking only enough for me to pawn and start a life elsewhere. Free from his cruel attitude, his overbearingness… the plans he had for me. I went out and charted my own path. Found the things that I was good at doing, at being, and poured everything into it.”

“But were you scared?” Dean asked, voice tinny and small, “Scared of what might happen? What others’d think?”

“At first.” Cas sighs, playing with his hair, “Then I realized, when you’re living for yourself. Everyone else’s opinions aren’t worth jack shit.” His lips rest on the crown of Dean’s head. “You should go to sleep.”

Dean slips into it comfortably. Cas…

It’s never that easy.


	10. morning after pill

Morning comes too quickly, and all at once.

Cas, at some point, fell asleep despite having his arms wrapped around a sea urchin with a recently uncovered soft side. When he awoke, however, it’s in an empty bed. Shivering, affected by a freezing chill that rests deep inside his stomach. He gropes the nearby floor for his discarded jacket, throwing it on with a yawn. Running tired fingers through knotted hair, Cas searches the room for any sign of Dean.

He sees the folding wall moved. If it were anywhere else, Cas might believe the other man fled before he could stop him. Running out like a one-night stand. The thought does pop up. Cas whacks it down, taking into account where his divider now rests.

Rising, Cas shuffles towards the bathroom. Water rushing out the faucet, howling in these early hours. He knocks at the edge of the divider, on the wooden doorjamb. “Dean,” he says, voice rough and raspy with sleep. “Dean, you okay in there?”

First, the faucet shuts off. Then the shadow of Dean’s head appears behind the folding wall. “Yeah,” Dean mumbles, “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Cas isn’t assured. He steps over the obvious rebuttal, going easy on him after yesterday. “You plan on coming out any time soon?”

It takes longer for him to respond. “I’ll need a few minutes.”

“Okay.” Nodding, Cas gives Dean space. Inches away from the bathroom, towards his living room. “You want me to get you anything? Breakfast? Coffee?”

“Bourbon?”

“…Let me check what I’ve got on tap.”

Stumbling through his archway, Cas detours from the kitchen as he finds the rest of the house already conscious. Claire and Kaia sit hunched over on the couch, both digging into bowls of cereal from Cas’s pantry while watching a cartoon. He snatches the box, shaking it. Nothing rattles inside. “This is how you repay me?”

“I’m gonna be grounded for the next month,” Claire spits through a mouthful of corn puffs, “you still owe _me_.”

He sighs, shooing them over so he can join them. Cas plops onto the couch, leaning on his fist. “Jimmy’s that mad?”

“Not as mad as he would’ve been,” she tells him, “I told him what he wanted to hear.”

“Which _was_?”

“That after the lecture, I stayed after with a few others and we were chatting with some of the panel guests. Then, when they left, we kept the conversation going at a nearby, all-night coffee shop. By the time I realized the time, I knew it’d be too late to go home. So _you_ were kind enough to offer yours to me for the night.” An explosion draws her attention back to the television screen, Yosemite Sam ashen and smoky. “I told him I’d find my own way home.”

Cas snorts, at both the cartoon and her story. “Kind enough to let you spend the night, but I draw the line at a ride home?”

“You had other plans.”

“I do?”

She arches a brow, glaring behind her glasses. “Figured you’d be too busy babysitting the detective after his first big boy trip. If last night was anything to go by, you’ll have a lot on your hands.”

“I don’t need babysitting, _kid_.”

Dean watches them, skin clammy and pale. Bangs plastered to his forehead, from either sweat, tap water, or a mixture of the two. He redressed in his square suit from the previous day, although more sloppily assembled. Shirt untucked, tie loose around his neck. His armor returned save for shoes and socks that were abandoned elsewhere, out of reach.

Claire squints, studying him. “Everyone needs someone to look out for them.”

“Not me.”

“Now, now,” Cas intervenes, arms spread wide between them. Preventive, in case these chihuahuas decide yipping won’t cut it. “Quit making me be the responsible one, it throws off our entire dynamic.” Then, after making sure Claire’s white flag waved high and proud, he turned on Dean. “Hey,” he whispers, inching closer, “are you okay?”

He bristles at the soft tenor of his voice. “I’m _fine_ ,” Dean tells him. Stomps past, snatching his shoes in one swift motion. “I’ve had worse nights in a bar, two bottles deep.”

Cas bites his tongue. Refrains from the lecture bubbling underneath his skin. How alcohol and acid were apples and oranges. That a mind unused to such tinctures can soar into some scary skies. Led there by mistrustful navigators, like Dean was. Those same people who launched him there in the first place. Him and every other partygoer, forced through some sick recruitment scheme. If it weren’t for Cas’s intervention, Dean might have…

Shaking his head, Cas busies himself with opening cabinets. Reveals a half-drunk bottle of vodka that smells worse than rubbing alcohol. He pours two fingers into a glass for Dean, only one for himself. “Will this do?”

Dean swallows it in one breath, asking for more with a wiggle of his empty container. Cas gives him less. He sips at it this time. “S’not bad.”

“It’s fucking awful,” Cas scowls, forcing the sip through his lips, “but it gets the job done.”

Claire leans forward, grinning, “Can I have some -?”

“No!”

She flinches, both of them glaring at her. Claire sulks, kicking the floor. “I can smoke, I can vote, I can die for my country… but God forbid I have a drink in a room full of grown-ups.”

“Trust me, Claire,” Cas sighs, drinking more of it. Gagging, “you can sneak better beers out of Jimmy’s fridge.” He looks at the detective, hoping their synchronicity can work again, that Dean supports his claim. However Dean lost interest in their conversation, staring at the television screen with rapt interest. A small smile, hidden by the rim of Cas’s glass, as Daffy and Bugs engage in another pointless argument. Cas feels his lips tug higher from seeing this adorable, unbidden act. Then his expression falls, realizing he must crack through that quiet peace. “Dean,” he starts. Waits for Deans’ eyes to draw from the screen towards his. “We need to talk about last night.”

He stiffens, glass seizing in his hand. “No, we don’t.”

“Yes, we do,” Cas insists. Continuing over further protest, “About the cult. Who was there…?” Nothing more, he doesn’t say. Nothing that Dean wouldn’t feel comfortable talking about in the sober light of day. What was learned in the shadows remains there until Dean wants to drag them from that prison. If he even carried them out of his room.

Dean swirls the last mouthful of his drink, tasting it. Sullen throughout it all. His gulp echoes in the space around them. “Fine,” he rasps, “Yeah… that was, they were there.”

“And carrying.” Cas glances at Claire, glad she stayed far from the punch. A better head on her shoulders than most others her age. “I’ve seen parties where everyone’s tripping balls but that was… it was pretty out there, even for me. I can’t remember any happening where the whole house seemed…”

“Dead?”

“Walking dead,” Cas nods, “Zombies, man. Like from the movies – it was all so… so _sinister_.”

“Yeah…” Dean rubs at his jaw, gaze shrouded as the light focuses inward. Arguing with himself, Cas left outside. Waiting. “It was… like I couldn’t make any thoughts. The whole process kept getting - getting _interrupted_. Overwhelmed by the lights… people and the music… and I was _floating,_ almost like I wasn’t there. Like I’d never been there. Nothing I did mattered… and I was just a _flea_ on the back of some mangy dog. Until _they_ found me and grounded me again. And I stayed because I… I was afraid I’d get loose and disappear for real without ‘em.”

“Is that how they put it to you?”

“I – I think?” He sets his glass aside, sighing. Shoe’s heels tapping on the counter from where he rests them. “That whole conversation is so fuzzy… like I forgot everything the moment you showed. The whole night’s a blur since we got there, really.”

“So, you don’t remember…” Cas tapers off, asking without words.

Dean’s mouth quirks into a wry smile. Lines etched with all he muttered during the night. “Bits and pieces,” he admits, “here and there.” That’s as much Cas expects Dean to share for now.

There were more pressing matters at hand. Like Kaia, the most recent addition to their group. Finished with her cereal, she carried the empty bowl over and dropped it into an overflowing sink. Ran the water during beats where neither he nor Dean spoke. Careful, like she was listening. “Kaia,” Cas looks at her, “you have anything you want to add?”

“Me?” She points at herself, feigning confusion, “Why would I…?”

“Because you seemed very… _intuitive_ , last night,” Cas explains, arms crossed over his chest. Musters an intimidating stare. “With the punch bowl… and _who_ spiked it.” Dean perks, following his lead. Mirrors his stance, albeit less threatening because of his current state. “Is there anything you want to say?”

Her eyes dart from him to Dean, bouncing like a beach ball over a net. Spiked, it landed on Cas. “It wasn’t me,” she tells him, “I… they always said it was a necessary part of the ritual, but even when I believed I… it never seemed right.”

“Back when you…”

“And it’s not like I don’t remember what it felt when I went through it,” she continues, rambling, “like… it’s exactly like what you said. This – this _fog_ that they put you in and keep you there for so long that… that you…” Kaia hiccups, hyperventilating.

Dean sighs, reaching forward before Cas could act. Squeezes her shoulder, “Hey. You’re safe here, okay? They can’t touch you.”

“How do you know?”

Claire joins them, “Because he’s a pig.” Her bowl clatters like a gunshot on top of Kaia’s bits of milk spraying out at them.

“A cop?” Kaia hisses, stepping out of his hold, “You’re a cop?”

Dean fumbles, looking at the assembled party. Colored with unease and embarrassment. “So what?” he asks, “What’s bad about that? It sounds like you _need_ a cop.”

“No one needs a cop,” she tells him, scowling. Venom dripping from her words. She glances at Cas with similar fury, “You his partner? Huh? Did I stumble into some sting –“

“It’s not like that.” Cas approaches, now, even toned. “I don’t have a badge, and –“ he adds, noticing how she hovers near Claire. Trying to use her as a shield. “If you don’t believe me, you can ask her.”

Kaia does, silently. Tips her head and arches a brow. Claire rolls her eyes, “Yeah, he might act like a narc sometimes when it comes to me. But Cas is pretty groovy most of the time.”

“And the cop?”

“I mean, I’ve only just met the man,” Claire says, “seems like a fucking stickler, but Cas brought him on… that’s gotta count for something.” She nudges the other girl, chuckling. “Besides, my uncle’s got him wrapped around his little pinky. All bark, but there’s no sharp teeth waiting.”

Cas feels a rippling heat spread from his stomach, of a long-buried emotion reviving. A jolt of embarrassment ricochets around, forcing Cas’s attention from the girls to Dean, detective suddenly bashful as well, and then on a stain on his ceiling. An odd shape he cannot remember. Thinks over possible causes until the monster traipsing through his nerves slumbers again. By then, both Kaia and Claire watch him with heightened interest.

He clears his throat, “Kaia. Why don’t you start from the beginning… you know this group?”

She nods. “I’ve been running with them a few months now. Ever since this bonfire happening I went to, I… it was so stupid. I’d gotten in a fight with Margie, about her flushing all my cigarettes… and I needed to blow off some steam.” Kaia drifts, collapsing on the sofa. Blankly staring at the latest cartoon playing, continuing with her story. “Heard about this from a few girls at my newest school. Figured I could go there and bum a few to get me through – at least until I found a new store that wouldn’t notice a few extra missing packs. Last one promised they’d remember me if I ever stepped foot on their property… I get there and I didn’t know what to expect. Felt like a ghost, no one really noticing me. But then this guy comes by, handing me something to drink. Couldn’t say no, I mean… he was twice my size and built like a fucking _tree_.” Dean stiffens, Cas noticing out the corner of his eye. He’d be more concerned if an annoying static hadn’t overtaken his thoughts. Kaia’s story flicking at a fuzzy memory. “And after I drank he found me again. Introduced me to a few other kids he’d gathered and started going into this whole… I just… it felt like a dream, you know?” She sighs, curling in on herself. Claire hurries over, offering a comforting shoulder. Kaia greedily accepts. “Too good to be true, saying all the right things. Making promises I never knew were possible. Invited me to his pad, because the sun was about to rise and most of the other kids had already jumped ship.”

“We followed because – because why wouldn’t we? This was something we _needed_. But as he was getting the van ready, I saw this payphone and… I just…” Cas breathes so sharply it breaks the ballooning silence that overtook the room during Kaia’s story. She hadn’t noticed, but Dean and Claire did. He bends towards a nearby pile, sifting through it. Kaia’s narration a soundtrack for his frantic actions. “I had to call Margie, in the moment. It felt like the right thing. ‘Cept it was so early, I got her voicemail. Started rambling… nonsense, man. Probably wasn’t making any sense. But before I could even get to the goodbye tall guy grabs the phone and slams it on the receiver. Drags me back to the van and shoves me in, because by then I was like a fucking ragdoll. It should’ve been a sign, the look on his face was so… I barely knew the man but I felt his disappointment crashing into me. Couldn’t think about it too much, someone was putting a joint in my mouth and it… it all went…”

Cas stands, waving a manila envelope. “Kaia!” he says, “Kaia Nieves!”

Kaia’s jaw drops, stuttering on the first few words. “Yes… that’s my – how did you –“

“I knew there was something…” He hands the folder to Dean, grinning. “She’s one of them. The missing kids.”

Dean glances at the file, then at Kaia. Cracks forming on the file from how tight his grip is. He doesn’t open it. Cas, distracted by his discovery, rounds on Kaia. “Your foster mother said you left a message for her the day of your disappearance, but the cops chalked most of what you said as some bad trip.”

Claire scoffs. “For once, they weren’t exaggerating –“

“Where’d you get these?”

Cas turns, struck by the intense suspicion radiating from Dean’s gaze. “Excuse me?”

“These are police files,” he hisses, whacking Castiel in the chest with them. Past the boundaries of personal space, “not just that, they’re _secret_ files. Where… did _you_ … get them?”

“I stole them,” Cas shrugs, centering himself in case Dean reacted like he did in front of the church. Preparing for a return to hostility. “The day you brought me in for questioning.”

“You stole -!” Dean shudders with anger, fire pouring out flared nostrils. “How’d you even know where to look.”

“ _You_ told me.”

High noon. Cas and Dean on either end of a small town, their guns raised and ready. Sun boiling both of them, frying the two men like eggs in a pan. Neither breaking a sweat, nor willing to cede. The smallest of flinches could set off a chain reaction that would end poorly. Cas suffers greatly mimicking a statue, Dean’s pursed lips too tempting given their proximity.

Luckily, someone nearby clears their throat. Cooling them. Dean retreats towards his shoes, grabbing them off the counter this time. Trading them for the file. He claims the recently empty couch, Claire and Kaia uncomfortably fidgeting near the door. “Hey,” Claire starts, hooking her thumb behind her, “we’re gonna dip… someone’s gotta be going my way, right?”

Cas deflates, “I guess… you sure you don’t -?”

“It’s fine.”

“And you?” Cas asks Kaia, “Are you going back to Margie?”

Kaia remains silent at Claire’s side. His niece answers for her, “Dad won’t mind an extra mouth around the house, for a few days. At least until Kaia decides what she wants to do next.”

It’s not something he likes. From what Kaia said, she was involved pretty heavily with this group. If a cult member discovers where she’s been hiding… those are possibilities he’d rather not delve into. “He might bitch and moan,” he says, “but if you get Amelia on your side he’ll turn over like a puppy.”

She giggles, flipping her hair off her shoulder. “Like I didn’t already know that?” Claire reaches for the doorknob, stopping only because Cas grabs her wrist. “What?”

“Before you go, Kaia…” he addresses the other girl. “This place that the –“ his tongue trips, Dean’s aura pricking at his senses, “the tall man took you to. Do you remember where it is?”

Her expression falls, and Kaia shakes her head. “We never really left after that except to go to parties. When we did, we’d clamber into the backs of vans. Only people Carver trusted the most would drive. All I can tell you is it’s in the woods somewhere, trees as far as the eye can see.”

He mentally tacks a pin onto that piece of information, jumping from that onto something else she said. “Carver? Who’s that?”

“Carver? Carver Edlund?” A shadow crosses Kaia’s face, transforming it. Pure hatred, stronger than any other emotion he’s seen her show, presents itself. “He’s the big man who was _supposed_ to guide me and all his other followers into a peaceful new millennium of his own design.”

Cas’s mouth stretches thin, “I take it that wasn’t gonna happen.”

“Oh it would,” she tells him, “but it wasn’t exactly what he fed me and everyone else.” Kaia dips her head, close enough Cas can hear her whispering through grit teeth. “It must’ve been fate. I didn’t mean to, but I found myself in his secret meditation room, I… he preaches to us, about how we need to let go of all Earthly tethers. Connect with the infinite, to prepare for when he would ask of his children to make great sacrifices. We hardly slept, and when we did it was on hardwood floors – one blanket between five people. Days either filled with tasks or meditation, barely any time for food. And no modern conveniences because they led us astray from the pure path. And we did all that, without asking any questions. But we should have. Like why the fuck did he have a telephone in his private chambers? A safe, and a box with rabbit ears poking out the top? Not what you’d expect to aid with centering yourself in the universe…”

“Not at all…” He whistles through the lump in his throat. She painted a troubling scene, that cut through his soul with horrifying accuracy. Cas manages a cool façade, aware of Claire’s eyes on him. Wears a false grin that doesn’t shine in his eyes. “One more thing…” Cas says, “was there a… a boy there? Around your age, blondish hair – Bambi features? Name’s Jack –“

“We don’t keep our real names,” she sighs, “it’s… part of the whole thing. You give that up along with all other aspects of your past life. So I – I wouldn’t know of a Jack.” Kaia gifts him a sad smile, squeezing his wrist. “But I did see someone who – if he’s who you’re looking for. He goes by Wind Crest.”

Cas can’t decide whether knowing where Jack might be is a blessing or a curse. While weighing the choices, the girls slip free from his pad. Leaving him and the detective.

He looks at where the other man rests, not moving since he sat; almost fused with the couch. A fog spread over his meadowy gaze that reminded Cas of last night, though he knows that’s not the case. Dean trips on an even deadlier hallucinogen, worsened by the dregs of whatever remained in his system. Sinister because its poison grew inside. Cas shuffles closer, sitting on the edge. Kicking at his untouched shoes so they ram against his coffee table legs, startling Dean from his thoughts. “Hey,” Cas starts, hands glued to his knees. “It might not have been your brother?”

“Of course it was my fucking brother, Cas.”

Cas relents, huffing a short, tired sniff. “Fine,” he says, “stay stuck in that negative sinkhole.”

“Negative sink…” Dean sneers, glaring at him. “Why shouldn’t I? And why aren’t you? This whole… this whole mess’s been one long tunnel without any fucking light at the end of it. These bastards are drugging people into insanity and my… my brother’s part of it. _Actively participating_ in it. I almost…” He chokes, coughing through his next sentence. “I can’t believe Sammy’d do this.”

Dean’s shouting drags him onto his level, the tranquil façade fading. Clouds greying, a storm arriving in his features. Age showing by the lines sliced into his face. “He is… but he also isn’t. Your brother’s just one little cog on a larger machine, man. Doing what he’s being told. Creeps like this Edlund bastard, they prey on whatever weakness they find and have other people do what they want because controlling others… taking away their free will… it’s the only way they can get their kicks.”

“You’ve got experience with cults, too?”

“Somewhat,” Cas shrugs, “I grew up rich. Sort of the same thing, except the smell’s different.” He stretches, arm sliding back. Loosely wrapped around Dean’s shoulders. “You’d be surprised how cultish many things are when looked at from the right angle. Corporations, government, religion…” Cas tenses, “ _brotherhoods_.”

Dean throws Cas’s arm off, whirling. “The right angle, huh?” he spits, “Sort of like how _this_ could be considered brainwashing?”

“I’m only engaging you in a conversation –“

“Yeah, well that’s not how I’m _looking_ at it.” Dean gnaws on his lips, face steadily growing redder. Until finally he hops forward, storming out his apartment. “Whatever, I’m leaving.” Dean slams the door on his exit, Cas flinching from the sound. Staring since it hadn’t closed all the way, opportunity slowly widening.

Cas glances at the floor, where Dean’s shoes remained. He stuffs the socks back inside, gathers them, and jogs after the other man. Dean halfway across the parking lot when Cas called for him, “Your shoes, Dean! You forgot your shoes!”

Dean hurries faster, fumbling with his keys. Cas notices how his hands tremble, missing the lock. As he stands inches from Dean, back still facing him, Cas is given a perfect view of Dean’s grip failing. Keys clattering to the ground below. Dean, shifting on his feet, avoids stepping on them. But he doesn’t bend for them. Frozen, leaning on his car, growing and shrinking with ragged breaths. “Why can’t you…” His head dips, vanishing. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

Cas swings the shoes from crooked fingers, humming. “It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since you were drugged,” he says, “you’re in no condition to be going _anywhere_.”

“You concerned about me?”

“If I say yes will you fucking _face_ me?” Dean whips around, eyes wide in condemnation for raising his voice. Causing a scene. Drawing attention to them.

“Listen,” he growls, shivering. A pervasive chill hanging in the atmosphere Cas couldn’t feel from the flush of exasperation setting his skin on fire. “I don’t need you to look out for me, okay? I don’t need _anyone_. I’m _fine_.” He pulls at his necktie, loosening it further. Sweat stains the collar of his shirt. “Looking out for people is supposed to be _my_ job.”

“And look how well that’s worked out for you.” Hurt stains Dean’s cheeks, too wrecked he cannot hide the wound. Cas curses, pinching his temple, “I’m sorry, that – that was a low blow.” Whistling, Cas moves so his toes laid over Dean’s. Runs gentle fingers through Dean’s bangs. He doesn’t fight, which Cas takes as a sign he can continue. “You said earlier that this… _investigation_ was a dark tunnel without any light?”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs. Eyes closed, relaxing under Cas’s petting, “Yeah that’s… I stand by that.”

“You’re not completely wrong,” he says, “this tunnel is _extremely_ dark. But there’s _always_ light on the other side.”

“More of your hippie hoodoo bullshit, Cas?”

“Actually, experience.”

Dean laughs hollowly, Cas’s hand stilling atop Dean’s head. “Yeah, well in my experience there’s no light. On the job… outside of it – it’s just years of shadows and not even a shred of light ever broke through.”

Cas hums, considering his next words. “Well… maybe you’ve gotten so used to the darkness… that the light’s just blended in?” Dean’s chin meets his chest, lips stuck in a severe pout. He switches topics, easing away from Dean. Hands him his boots, simultaneously snatching his keys from the ground. “Let me drive you home, okay?”

“Okay,” he mumbles. Rearranges himself into a more familiar posture, its appearance more pitiful than annoying. “Scratch her once and I’m dragging you in for kidnapping and vandalism.”

“I’ll be careful with her.”

“And if I smell even a _hint_ of reefer on her the next day, you’re paying to have her cleaned.”

“Of course.”

“And, Cas?”

“Yes?” He waits by the open door, a foot already inside. Dean squirms from the opposite side, staring at the passenger door like it could open automatically. Seasons change during the time Dean fights against his hesitation. Sun reappearing in the sky, warming the area. Melting their icy tension.

“Just…” he nods, glancing fleetingly in his direction, “thanks.” Dean hurls himself into his car, not waiting for Cas’s response.

There wasn’t any for him to give. Cas accepts his gratitude with a polite chuckle, levity rushing to fill up the cracks made from all those hits he took since waking. Ascending to a comfortable high without the aid of any drugs. Knowingly. Because certain habits of Dean were ridiculously addicting that they should be deemed illegal.

He only hopes that the withdrawal won’t kill him.

* * *

Of the years he knew Dean, Cas never wondered where the other man would hang up his jacket. Cas imagined, of course. A sprawling ranch where he rode horses during his off time, when the sheriff’s badge was away. Or perhaps a functional apartment that he slept in when not at his desk. Jokingly, Cas also pictured Dean sliding into a box like all the other Ken Dolls. Although from last night, he can attest that he packs _more_ than Barbie’s boy toy. In the end, of all his fantasies, he never pegged Dean as a suburbanite. It seemed too… _ordinary_. Boring. _Expected_.

But after learning what he did, those are exactly why it makes sense. Clicking as he pulls up the driveway.

“Wait,” Dean commands, digging around in his glovebox, “let me get the garage door.”

“We can’t get out here?”

“And have people see you? Fat chance.” Dean reveals a black, rectangular box. Flips a switch that has his garage opening for them. Creaking slowly, loudly in this small quiet until the final panel fades. He clears his throat, “You can go now.”

“As you wish, m’Lord.” Cas eases into the space, door closing behind them. Parking, turning the keys off but leaving them in the ignition. “So, what now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want me to stay here?” he asks, face blank in practiced seriousness, “Wait for nightfall, then scamper my way back to my pad, preserving this air of conformity you’ve mastered over the years?”

Dean rolls his eyes, kicking his way out of the car. “You can come in for a drink,” he offers. Offhandedly, mumbled with a slight blush on his cheeks, “If you want… that is.”

“Sure,” Cas says, following, “it’d be rude to turn my nose at free booze.”

Snorting, Dean waits on the steps leading out the garage and into his house proper. Expression soft under the humming fluorescents he powered on moments before. Allowing Cas a better glimpse of this room. At a cherry red, beaten-and-scraped toolbox that sat on a long workbench. Piles of dirty rags stacked atop a barrel. Torn posters of cars and men plastered across one wall, a risky collage. “You’re concerned with being _rude_?”

Cas passes him, waiting until he’s standing beside him on the other side. “I have some manners.”

“How come I’m not seeing them ‘till now?”

“Because manners mean fuck-all on the streets,” Cas’s head swivels, left to right. “Which way’s the watering hole?”

“This way.” They shuffle down the hall, two sharp turns – left, then right – until reaching the main living room. Dean drops his shoes by the front door, collecting mail delivered hours earlier. “You can take a seat anywhere…” he gestures with the envelopes while scanning them, blindly walking towards a wooden bar set. A crystal decanter waiting, amber liquid sloshing within.

While Dean busies himself there, Cas’s gaze bounces around the room. Taking in certain elements, squinting because heavy curtains block any sunlight from filtering through. He gropes for another light switch, finding it behind a barren coat rack.

Adjusting to the light, Cas moves further into the room. Notices the garish choice in wallpaper that clings along the walls. Creamy orange interspersed with spiraling white lines that cross paths at random moments. This choice was slightly less ridiculous than the patterned fabric sofa and armchairs, pinkish petals blossoming on his furniture. Growing from the grassy knolls of his green shag carpeting, each step tickling his feet. He stops in front of the coffee table, naked save for an ash tray and a recent copy of Esquire. Cas studies it closer, from Nixon’s small head to the hand with long fingernails. Sniggering, thinking how uncomfortable using it might be.

“Here.” Dean nudges the glass at his shoulder, breaking him from the tangent. He sips at his overfilled glass, more there than Cas would recommend. At least he took it easy with Cas’s. “Hope you like brandy.”

Cas stills, glancing at the drink. Grip tensing, its heavy perfume punching his nose. Like it always did whenever he and Ishim fell into one of their bouts, rowdy on both sides. Only poured because Ishim needed breaks between rants. He drags the drink away from his face, placing it on Nixon. “Actually,” he says, “can I… use your bathroom? Gotta empty the tank if I want to fit all that in.”

Dean shrugs, not commenting on the sudden staleness of Cas’s aura. Immune to such observations. “Sure,” he says, nodding, “we passed it. Over there, first door on your right.”

“Thanks.” Cas retains his composure until he hears the lock flip. Then, he staggers forward. Braces himself on the sink, breathing raggedly. Shuts his eyes, tearing at the memory reel, film becoming spotty and broken. Finally, there’s nothing left spinning on the projector.

Still unsettled, Cas can’t go back out like he is now. He paws the handle of Dean’s medicine cabinet, flinging it wide. “Fuck,” he hisses, seeing nothing besides bandages and cotton balls. A bottle of dolls would’ve been fantastic. Something innocuous he could chew on. The buzz isn’t half of what grass is, but Cas doubts he could escape Dean’s wrath if he lit a joint here.

Closing the cabinet, he faces his reflection. Bloodshot eyes, skin sickly against the sterile tiling of the bathroom. Hair mussed in an unflattering angle. Cas hits the faucet, splashing some water on his face. Cups it and runs it over his head, sighing at the cool sensation. Then, when feeling refreshed, he shakes his head. Droplets flying across the room. Checking himself over again, Cas looks better. There’s still the problem of the splitting headache cracking his temple in two.

Besides the empty medicine cabinet, the bathroom looks unfurnished. No towels or toilet paper – not even a plunger. There wasn’t even a shower.

Which meant there must be another bathroom.

“No,” Cas sighs, pointing at his reflection. Smudging it, “Dean let you into his home. He didn’t have to. Do this, and who knows when this will happen again.”

Although, even if he were on his best behavior, Cas doubts there will ever be another chance at seeing Dean’s home.

He pokes his head from out the bathroom, scanning the area. Dean sat on the couch, flicking through channels on the television. Back facing him. Perfect for Cas as he tiptoes away from the bathroom and around the corner.

Cas tries the first door he sees, across from the bathroom. It creaks open, Cas wincing the entire time. Waiting for Dean’s questioning call, he relaxes when there isn’t any.

Inching across the threshold, Cas investigates. Softly cheers at his success, spotting a bed. However, it’s short-lived. There’s no other bathroom here. Hardly anything besides an untouched bed. He checks the empty dresser drawers and closet, frowning at moth balls and dusty hangers. “A guest room,” he reasons, “Or…” His gaze darts towards a lone nightstand, with a framed picture of two, familiar children placed before the undisturbed reading lamp.

He hurries from the room, leaving no trace of ever being there.

Cas considers his next move. Besides the garage, there are two more doors. Or he could return to Dean. Pretend he took longer because the kids couldn’t wait to visit the pool. That would quell any doubt in his mind, veering the conversation away from such topics.

It’d be easy. Instead, Cas chooses door number one.

At least it’s silent when he pushes forward.

This room is much larger, with signs of life. And judging by where carped fades into tile, there’s another bathroom here. However, that becomes less important the more Cas studies Dean’s suite.

Unlike other spaces he saw, Dean put thought into his decoration here. Posters from old Westers hanging on the wall. A huge profile of John Wayne with a smoking gun taking most space. Small table pressed into a corner; a record player plugged into a nearby outlet. An empty sleeve for Bob Dylan’s _Desire_ stuffed underneath. Bedspread a beautiful, rusted red. Twin sets of pillows, although only one side looks disturbed. Sheets ruffled halfway, as if no one slept on the other side. He considers that to be the case, as twin nightstands differ because of their use. One collected dust while the other held a row of books. Titles Cas gapes at, their appearance unexpected.

_Cuckoo’s Nest. Slaughterhouse-Five. Howl_.

Kesey. Vonnegut. Ginsburg.

He grabs the only book that strayed from its pack, flipping through Kerouac’s _On the Road_ until a familiar cough startles him from his shock. Cas crushes the book, spinning on his heel. Dean catching him red-handed. “Um…”

Dean crosses his arms, scowling. “This isn’t the bathroom.”

“It’s not,” Cas agrees, chuckling. Fiddles with a few loose pages. “Would you believe the energy in your bathroom wasn’t conducive for me to… _release_?”

A poor excuse that Cas knows Dean will see through. Except there’s no further protests. Dean relaxes with a sigh, moving closer. Snatches his book back from the other side of his bed. Inspects it, “At least you didn’t lose my place…”

“Your place,” Cas parrots. “So you _are_ reading it?”

“Yeah…” Dean arches a brow, laying it on the untouched nightstand. A cloud of dust exploding upon contact. “Why else would I have it in my room?” He shrugs out of his jacket, laying it across his bed. Stepping around and heading for a second door, a closet Cas guesses.

“I don’t know,” Cas yells, sitting on Dean's bed. Swings his legs up, melting into the mattress. “Didn’t expect your reading habits to be so… _hippiesh_.”

Dean scoffs from behind the closet door. “I picked it up because I heard it was about two men doing cross-country through America, and one was named Dean.” Voice soft, Cas strains to listen. “Figured it’d be kinda nice… help me think about the good times when…” He growls, tone shifting. “It doesn’t matter. Reading it’s a fucking chore. Sometimes I can’t understand what the bastard wrote even after staring at the page for ten minutes.”

“Yeah, well, I heard it helps to read while _high_.” Cas drags Dean’s suit jacket over, sniffing at the collar. Grinning, “Doesn’t explain your other books. I mean – you got a copy of the Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test lying around somewhere?”

“Very _funny_ …” Dean returns, buttoning the last of his ruby red pajama shirt over his chest. Navy pants flaring from the knee like many of Cas’s bell bottoms. He readies another exchange, lips parting for the words to come. They never do. Stilled, stuck on his tongue while his eyes rove over Cas’s body. Pupils, already dark, dilate further.

Smirking, Cas stretches languidly. Adds a wink that throws Dean further off, blush staining his cheeks. “So,” he asks, “what’s Abby think of all this?”

“Think of what?”

He gestures around them, “Your room?”

“She…” Dean’s shoulders stiffen, fists tightening at his sides. “She’s never seen it.”

“What?”

“It’s improper,” he explains.

Cas, sighing, throws his feet off Dean's bed and onto the floor. “You’re engaged to this poor girl and you’ve… never let her see your bedroom? Fuck, Dean, I know you don’t like her but how desperate is she that you’ve got her eating crumbs out of your hands?”

Dean bristles, any warmth towards him chilling. “Don’t act like you know anything about our relationship,” he says. Teeth grinding together. His gaze darts away for a quick beat, frowning, “I wouldn’t have asked her to marry me if I wasn’t serious. Some people still like doing things the old-fashioned way. Instead of… taking any random stranger into bed.”

“But if you don’t how will you ever know you’re compatible,” Cas teases. Stretches his legs open, rubbing at the inside of his thigh until Dean looks at him. Then trails his fingers along other, more _sensitive_ areas. “It wouldn’t be called _chemistry_ if there aren’t supposed to be explosions every now and then.”

It’s dirty, using his body in such a way. Cas cannot stop himself, urged on by Dean’s response. Hollow cheeks, hooded eyes, and a bump poking through thin pants. He manages to string together a response. “Relationships are more than just about sex. Just because you’re supposed to explode… doesn’t mean you should.”

“But after the explosion, then something _new_ is born! Two becomes one.”

“That’s what the wedding is for.”

“Is that what you tell her, after every advance you turn down?” Cas speaks without thinking, hand pressed above his crotch, “To every girl you’ve ever seen.”

The moment collapses inward, build-up pointless because of Cas’s careless mouth. Knocking down his hard work by dredging the other man’s drug-addled ramblings from the night before to the surface. A flash of betrayal appears, reddened skin paling as blood drains elsewhere. “I… I don’t…” Dean scowls, “I don’t care for what you’re implying.”

At least he won’t deny. “It’s okay –“

“No, it’s not,” Dean rushes, pacing his room. Hands flying everywhere while he rambles, “You don’t get to come into _my_ house and then make some – some fucked up accusations because of a few things I might’ve said while _under_ the _influence_. That’s not – that’s fucking sick, using it against me. Thinking that I might –“

“Like men?”

“I _don’t_.” His screech hurts, Cas wincing from it. Dean nearly attacks him, edging into his space. Boxes further escape, knees trapped between Dean and his bed. Pokes at him, making Cas teeter. “Don’t put – don’t put _words_ in my mouth that aren’t fucking true, okay. Just because I haven’t slept with Abby doesn’t mean I don’t plan to. That I’m not… not _expecting_ it’s something I’ll have to do. I mean – that I’m looking forward to… _fuck!_ ” Cas watches Dean, possessed by his anger, stumble backwards. Seething. Trembling. “You…” he accuses, “you probably, you’re the one who likes guys…”

Cas shrugs, “Yeah, I figured I made that _very_ clear.”

From Dean’s reaction, he hadn’t anticipated such an answer. “What?”

“I fuck guys,” he says, “sometimes I get _fucked_ by guys… it doesn’t really matter to me.” Cas advances as Dean puts more distance between them. Arms held wide, like Cas might pounce now. “Only if they _want_ to fuck, Dean.”

“Who says I _wanted_ to.” Dean claws at his scalp, avoiding Cas’s stare, “Fuck, do you know how immoral that is, Cas?”

“So’s most of the things I do. I stopped counting after a while…” He softens somewhat, tide of his indignation ebbing. “If it makes you feel better, I also fuck women.”

“How is that –“ Dean’s lips curl, “You can fuck women, and you _still_ choose to do… _that_ with men?”

Cas huffs, “Sometimes to scratch an itch you need to try all that you can.” He rubs at his face, exhausted from their fighting. “I don’t see what the big deal is –“

“Of course you don’t. You _never_ do!” Dean yells, fury renewed. “Always going out of your way to go _against_ the crowd. Do the _opposite_ of normal. Buck authority and decency because for someone as old as you are, you’ve never really grown up.”

He feeds off of Dean’s vigor, strengthening his own spirit. “Growing up doesn’t mean doing what you’re told _without question_ ,” Cas hisses at him, “of the two of us, you’re still the child. Doing whatever someone says like a good little soldier because the world will end if someone gets the wrong impression of you!”

“So what if I care what other people think about me! Shouldn’t everybody? Shouldn’t _you_?”

“No,” Cas tells him, “I learned long ago that other people’s opinion meant little when it came to how I should live my life.” Suddenly, the film he destroyed reassembles itself. Cas too distracted he is forced to relive that fateful evening.

Everyone else fled by that point, like animals escaping from a natural disaster. Instinct guiding them away as this was not the first time Cas and Ishim clashed.

It was the last.

“You’re awfully stubborn for a boy who’s been given everything,” he screamed, some of his precious brandy spilling out of his glass. Staining the rug. “Why can’t you be good like you brothers and sister and do as your told!”

“Because you’re fucking _nuts_ if you think I’m going to some school on the _other side of the fucking world_!”

“England is _not_ the other side of the world, Castiel,” Ishim scolded, scoffing at him. Downs the rest of his brandy but carries the glass, regardless. “I called in a lot of favors to get you into Oxford, the least you can do is be _grateful_ that I haven’t written you off as the fuck-up you are. Over there… you can have a fresh start. Actually _apply_ yourself, make yourself into a success. Show that you deserve a job in my company!”

Cas shook with the ferocity of ten storms raging inside him, each fighting the other. Becoming deadlier as winds clashed and lightning splintered. “I don’t want to work for you!” he says, “I _never_ did! When will you get that through your thick skull you fucking _bastard_ –“

It wasn’t the first slap. But it was the final one.

“I am your father, Castiel,” he said, “By the Lord’s grace, show me that respect.” Cas won’t deign him with a response. Not even as he hurls the glass at the wall, shards shattering everywhere. “Fine,” he says, “you want to be a big boy. Then you’re a big boy Castiel. Go on out there and do _whatever_ the hell it is you plan on doing.” Ishim skulked away, Cas breathing deep of cleaner air. “You’ll be back though,” Ishim warned, “freedom has a price you aren’t ready to pay. Your generation _loves_ talking but quit when it all gets tough. I expect the same from you. Just hope by then I’m in a much more forgiving mood…”

Cas shudders through the memory, returning to the present. “If I lived my life based on the expectations of others… it’d be no life at all. Certainly not _mine_. It’d be whoever made those stupid rules to begin with. Part of a cult that’s grown so large no one bats an eye at it anymore…”

Dean groans, “Not this shit again…”

“You ask how your brother can just go along and do whatever that Carver Edlund guy says?” Cas says, “Think about how joining the police has changed you. How you’ve been stalled from acting, even though there are kids out there being messed with –“

“We didn’t know that!” Dean tries, hurt bleeding through the rage. “I didn’t… sure, we figured drugs were involved. But nothing like – not to the extent that I… that there was…”

“And now that you do?”

“Hmm?”

“Now that you do?” Cas asks, “What are you going to do about it?”

It’s no a question he wanted to ask. Because of the two answers, Cas guesses Dean will pick that which will break his heart.

He hates being right.

“I can’t forget why I’m doing this, Cas,” he says, “Sammy… my brother needs me. I couldn’t be there for him before, but now I… I can.”

“And what of the others?” Cas continues, “All the people’ll who are under the same spell as your brother?”

Dean shrugs, “I don’t… I call in to the cops and they go in, get the guy and bring everyone home?”

“Dean, I know you’re not dumb so stop acting like it.” He bows from Cas’s wounding hit, shame hanging from his neck. “Every two-bit pig has been waiting for a moment like this ever since they took Manson down. Living out fantasies at the price of some poor, misguided children. And what will happen? They’ll get praised as heroes.”

“So what should I do then, Cas?” Dean fires back, “Drop out? Start over? Be more like you?”

“Yes! No… fuck, Dean,” He pulls on the ends of his hair, scrounging for _anything_. “I’m only trying to… trying to help. Get you thinking for yourself, asking the right questions – choose your own path so you won’t have any regrets. I mean… hell, anything has to be better than what you’re doing now. Where you slog through things you hate only because someone _told_ you that you had to or – or delude yourself into thinking you made choices that were already decided for you by other people who don’t know anything!”

“Fine!” Dean yells, reaching for Cas. Grabs both his wrists in a tight vice. “You want to know what _I_ want to do? I want to keep working this case with you.”

“…What?”

“You made good calls, with the party. And Kaia,” he says, “I’m sure if we continue we’ll find the location of that compound no problem. Then we sneak in, I grab Sam and – and you get your friend Jack, and we lock them here until we figure out how to screw their heads on right again!”

Cas heard the plaintive yearning in Dean’s voice, entwined with his mania. He needs to know one last thing, “And the others?”

“We’re only two men, Cas. What can we do?”

“ _I’m_ going to find this Carver Edlund and… do _something_.” Cas extricates himself from Dean’s hold, walking towards the door. “You can… go back to what you were doing before.”

Dean allows a brief show of vulnerability, burdening Cas’s rejection. Then he squares his shoulders, usual mask slipping over the shards of his expression. “Figure you’d at least ask me to be better than what I was.”

“How can you be better in such a broken system.”

“I’m not sure,” he shrugs, “if I find out, I’ll let you know.” Dean turns, “Get the fuck outta my house.”

Cas lets him have the last word. Leaves him stewing in his own mess, safety preserver tossed elsewhere. He exits through the front door, proudly walking into the hostility. Grins at a neighbor watering her hedges and kicks a soccer ball towards nearby kids at play. Furthering the divide between him and the detective.

No matter the distance, Cas will feel Dean’s inner turmoil. Recognized it as struggles he went through. Though where Cas broke free, Dean continues being controlled by that horrifying specter. Judgement clouded by burdens parents should never lay on their child. Dean and all they went through may take a lot of real estate in his mind for the next few days.

However, he won’t let it distract him from his job.

**Author's Note:**

> What'd you think? Will be updating every Sunday!!


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